ehistin  Rimtly       Carthy 


THE 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


THE 

GOD  OF   LOVE 


BY 

JUSTIN  HUNTLY  MCCARTHY 

AUTHOR  OF 

"THE  GORGEOUS  BORGIA"  "SERAPHICA" 
"IF  i  WERE  KING"  ETC. 


1  The  God  of  Love— ah,  Benedicite, 
How  mighty  and  how  great  a  lord  is  he!" 


NEW  YORK   AND   LONDON 

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MCMIX 


NOVELS  BY 
JUSTIN  HUNTLY  McCARTHY 

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Copyright,  1909,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rifftts  ratrved 
Published  October,  1909. 


TO 

JUSTIN  MCCARTHY 


2042120 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  THE  MAY-DAY  QUEEN i 

II.  A  CHILD  AND  A  CHILD 28 

III.  VITTORIA 46 

IV.  THE  WORDS  OF  THE  IMAGE 54 

V.  ONE  WAY  WITH  A  QUARREL 66 

VI.  LOVER  AND  LASS 80 

VII.  CONCERNING  POETRY 92 

VIII.  MONNA  VITTORIA  SENDS  ME  A  MESSAGE  108 

IX.  MADONNA  VITTORIA  SOUNDS  A  WARNING  120 

X.  THE  DEVILS  OF  AREZZO 131 

XL  MESSER  FOLCO'S  FESTIVAL 138 

XII.  DANTE  READS  RHYMES 144 

XIII.  GO-BETWEENS 164 

XIV.  MESSER  SIMONE  SPOILS  SPORT     ....  176 

XV.  A  SPY  IN  THE  NIGHT     .         190 

XVI.  THE  TALK  OF  LOVERS 204 

XVII.  A  STRANGE  BETROTHAL 215 

XVIII.  A  WORD  FOR  MESSER  SIMONE     ....  225 

XIX.  THE  RIDE  IN  THE  NIGHT    ......  243 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGB 

XX.  THE  FIGHT  WITH  THOSE  OF  AREZZO  .     .  256 

XXI.  MALEOTTI  BEARS  FALSE  WITNESS  .     .     .  266 

XXII.  THE  RETURN  OF  THE  REDS 279 

XXIII.  THE  PEACE  OF  THE  CITY  ......  286 

XXIV.  BREAKING  THE  PEACE 297 

XXV.  MEETING  AND  PARTING 309 

XXVI.  THE  ENEMY  AT  THE  GATE 322 

XXVII.  THE  SOLITARY  CITY 335 

NOTE .    .    .    .  343 


THE  GOD  OF  LOVE 


THE    MAY-DAY   QUEEN 

THIS  is  the  book  of  Lappo  Lappi,  called  by  his 
friends  the  careless,  the  happy-go-lucky,  the 
devil-may-take-it,  the  God -knows -what.  Called 
by  his  enemies  drinker,  swinker,  tumbler,  tinker, 
swiver.  Called  by  many  women  that  liked  him 
pretty  fellow,  witty  fellow,  light  fellow,  bright  fel- 
low, bad  fellow,  mad  fellow,  and  the  like.  Called 
by  some  women  who  once  loved  him  Lapinello, 
Lappinaccio,  little  Lappo.  Called  now  in  God  as 
a  good  religious  should  be,  Lappentarius,  from  a 
sweet  saint  myself  discovered — or  invented;  need 
we  quibble  ? — in  an  ancient  manuscript.  And  it 
is  my  merry  purpose  now,  in  a  time  when  I,  that 
am  no  longer  merry,  look  back  upon  days  and  hours 
and  weeks  and  months  and  years  that  were  very 
merry  indeed,  propose  to  set  down  something  of  my 
own  jolly  doings  and  lovings,  and  incidentally  to 


THE   GOD  OF   LOVE 

tell  some  things  about  a  friend  of  mine  that  was 
never  so  merry  as  I  was,  though  a  thousand  times 
wiser;  and  never  so  blithe  as  I  was,  though  a  thou- 
sand times  the  better  man.  For  it  seems  to  me  now, 
in  this  cool  grim  grayness  of  my  present  way,  with 
the  cloisters  for  my  kingdom  and  the  nimbused 
frescoes  on  the  walls  for  my  old-time  ballads  and 
romances,  as  if  my  life  that  was  so  sunburnt  and 
wine-sweetened  and  woman-kissed,  my  life  that 
seemed  to  me  as  bright,  every  second  of  it,  as  bright 
ducats  rushing  in  a  pleasant  plenteous  stream  from 
one  hand  to  another,  was  after  all  intended  to  be 
no  more  than  a  kind  of  ironic  commentary  on,  and 
petty  contrast  to,  the  life  of  my  friend. 

He  and  I  lived  our  youth  out  in  the  greatest  and 
fairest  of  all  cities  that  the  world  has  ever  seen, 
greater  a  thousand  times  than  Troy  or  Nineveh,  or 
Babylon  or  Rome,  and  when  I  say  this  you  will 
know,  of  course,  that  I  speak  of  the  city  of  Florence, 
and  we  lived  and  loved  at  the  same  time,  lived  and 
loved  in  so  strangely  different  a  fashion  that  it 
seems  to  me  that  if  the  two  lives  were  set  side  by 
side  after  the  fashion  of  Messer  Plutarch  of  old 
days,  they  would  form  as  diverting  a  pair  of  op- 
posites  as  any  student  of  humanity  could  desire  for 
his  entertainment. 

I  shall  begin,  with  the  favor  and  permission  of 
Heaven,  where  I  think  the  business  may  rightly  be 
said  to  begin.  The  time  was  a  May  morning, 
2 


THE   MAY-DAY   QUEEN 

the  morning  of  May-day,  warm  and  bright  with 
sunlight,  one  of  those  mornings  which  makes  a  clod 
seem  like  a  poet  and  a  poet  seem  like  a  god.  The 
place  was  the  Piazza  Santa  Felicita,  with  the  Arno 
flowing  pretty  full  and  freely  now  between  its  bor- 
ders of  mud.  I  can  see  it  all  as  I  write,  as  I  saw  it 
yesterday,  that  yesterday  so  many  years  ago  when 
Lappo  Lappi  was  young  and  Lappentarius  never 
dreamed  of. 

There  is  no  lovelier  day  of  all  the  years  of  days 
for  Florence  than  May-day.  On  that  day  every- 
body is  or  seems  to  be  happy;  on  that  day  the 
streets  of  the  city  are  as  musical  as  the  courses  of 
the  spheres.  Youths  and  maidens,  garlanded  and 
gayly  raimented,  go  about  fifing  and  piping,  and 
trolling  the  chosen  songs  of  spring.  I  think  if  a 
stranger  should  chance  to  visit  Florence  for  the 
first  time  on  a  May-day,  with  the  festival  well 
toward,  he  might  very  well  think  that  he  had 
fallen  back  by  fortunate  chance  into  the  youth  of 
the  world,  when  there  was  nothing  better  nor 
wiser  to  do  than  to  dance  and  sing  and  make  merry 
and  make  love.  I  have  heard  Messer  Brunetto 
Latini  declare,  with  great  eloquence,  that  of  all 
the  cities  man  has  ever  upbuilded  with  his  busy 
fingers,  the  dear  city  of  Cecrops,  which  Saint 
Augustine  called  the  dear  City  of  God — in  a  word, 
Athens,  was  surely  the  loveliest  wherein  to  live. 
But  with  all  respect  to  Messer  Brunett^  T  would 
3 


THE   GOD   OF    LOVE 

maintain  that  no  city  of  Heathendom  or  Christen- 
dom could  be  more  beautiful  than  Florence  at  any 
season  of  the  year.  What  if  it  be  now  and  then 
windy;  now  and  then  chilly;  now  and  then  dusty  ? 
I  have  talked  with  a  traveller  that  told  me  he  had 
found  the  winters  mighty  bitter  in  Greece.  But 
I  think  that  in  all  the  history  of  Florence  there 
never  was  a  May-day  like  that  May-day.  It  was 
gloriously  green  and  gold,  gloriously  blue  and  white, 
gloriously  hot,  and  yet  with  a  little  cool,  kissing 
breeze  that  made  the  flaming  hours  delectable. 
And,  as  I  remember  so  well,  I  sat  on  the  parapet 
of  the  bridge  of  the  Holy  Felicity. 

Where  the  parapet  of  the  embankment  joined 
the  beginning  of  the  bridge  of  the  Santa  Felicita 
there  stood,  in  those  days,  a  large,  square,  orna- 
mental fountain.  Maybe  it  stands  there  now.  I 
was  banished  from  Florence  at  the  same  time  as 
my  friend,  and  we  left  our  Mother  of  the  Lilies  to 
seek  and  find  very  dissimilar  fortunes.  This  foun- 
tain had  a  niche  above  it,  in  which  niche  he  that 
built  the  fountain  designed,  no  doubt,  to  set  some 
image  of  his  own  design.  But  he  never  carried 
out  his  purpose,  why  or  wherefore  I  neither  knew 
nor  cared,  and  in  that  niche  some  Magnifico  that 
was  kindly  minded  to  the  people  had  set  up  a 
stone  image,  a  relic  of  the  old  beautiful  pagan 
days,  that  had  been  unearthed  in  some  garden  of 
his  elsewhere.  It  was  the  figure  of  a  very  comely 
4 


THE    MAY-DAY    QUEEN 

youth  that  was  clothed  in  a  Grecian  tunic,  and 
because,  when  it  was  first  dug  up,  it  showed  some 
traces  of  color  on  the  tunic  and  the  naked  legs  and 
arms  and  the  face  and  the  hair,  therefore  one  of 
the  artificers  of  the  said  Magnifico  took  it  upon 
himself  to  paint  all  as,  so  he  said,  it  had  once  been 
painted.  And  he  made  the  limbs  a  flesh  color, 
and  gave  the  face  its  pinks,  and  the  lips  their  car- 
nation, and  the  eyes  their  blackness,  very  lively  to 
see;  and  he  adorned  the  hair  very  craftily  with 
gold-leaf,  and  he  painted  the  shirt  of  the  adorable 
boy  a  very  living  crimson.  It  was  a  very  beautiful 
piece  of  work  with  all  these  embellishments,  and 
though  there  were  some  that  said  it  was  an  idol 
and  should  not  be  tolerated,  yet,  for  the  most  part, 
the  Florentines  liked  it  well  enough,  and  it  saved 
the  cost  of  a  new  statue  for  the  vacant  space. 

So  it  stood  there  this  day  that  I  think  of  and 
write  of,  a  very  brave  and  radiant  piece  of  color, 
too,  for  the  eye  to  rest  on  that  had  wearied  of  look- 
ing at  the  gray  stone  palace  hard  by,  the  palace  of 
Messer  Folco  Portinari,  that  showed  so  gray  and 
grim  in  all  weathers,  save  where  the  brown  rust  on 
its  great  iron  lamps  and  on  the  great  rings  in  the 
wall  lent  its  dulness  some  hint  of  pigment.  Over 
the  wall  that  hid  the  garden  of  the  palace  I  saw 
and  see  crimson  roses  hang  and  scarlet  pomegran- 
ate blossoms.  Opposite  this  gloomy  house  of  the 
great  man  that  was  so  well  liked  of  the  Florentines, 
5 


THE   GOD   OF    LOVE 

against  the  pillars  of  the  arcade,  there  stood,  as  I 
recall  it,  a  bookseller's  booth,  where  manuscripts 
were  offered  for  sale  on  a  board.  Here  he  that 
had  the  means  and  the  inclination  could  treat  him- 
self at  a  price  to  the  wisdom  of  the  ancient  world. 
I  fear  I  was  never  one  of  those  so  minded.  The 
wisdom  of  my  own  world  contented  me  to  the 
full,  and  ever  it  seemed  to  me  that  it  mattered  less 
what  Messer  Plato  or  Messer  Cicero  said  on  this 
matter  and  on  that  matter  than  what  Messer 
Lappo  Lappi  said  and  did  in  those  affairs  that 
intimately  concerned  him. 

Now,  on  this  day,  which  I  see  again  so  clearly,  I 
was  seated,  as  I  say,  on  the  parapet  of  the  bridge, 
propped  against  the  fountain.  If  I  turned  my 
head  to  the  left,  I  could  please  myself  with  a  sight 
of  the  briskly  painted  statue  of  the  young  Greek 
youth.  If  I  turned  my  head  to  the  right,  I  could 
look  on  the  river  and  the  smiling  country  beyond. 
But,  as  it  happened,  I  turned  my  head  neither  to 
the  left  nor  to  the  right,  but  straight  before  me  and 
a  little  below  me.  For  I  was  singing  a  song  to  a 
lute  for  an  audience  of  pretty  girls  who  looked  up 
at  me,  some  admiringly  and  some  mockingly,  but 
all  very  approvingly.  One  of  the  girls  was  named 
Jacintha,  and  one  was  named  Barbara,  and  an- 
other, that  had  hair  of  a  reddish-yellow  and  pale, 
strange  eyes,  was  called  Brigitta.  There  were  also 
many  others  to  whom,  at  this  time,  I  cannot  give 
6 


THE   MAY-DAY    QUEEN 

a  name,  though  I  seem  to  see  their  faces  very  clear- 
ly and  hear  the  sound  of  their  voices,  as  well  I 
might,  for  I  was- very  good  friends  with  most  of 
them  then  or  thereafter.  And  this  is  the  song  that 
I  was  singing: 

"Flower  of  the  lily  or  flower  of  the  rose, 
My  heart  is  a  leaf  on  each  love-wind  that  blows. 
A  face  at  the  window,  a  form  at  the  door, 
Can  capture  my  fancy  as  never  before. 
My  fancy  was  captured,  since — well,  let  us  say 
Since  last  night,  or  the  night  before  last,  when  I  lay 
In  the  arms  of — but,  hush,  I  must  needs  be  discreet; 
So  farewell,  with  a  kiss  for  your  hands  and  your  feet. 
I  worship  your  fingers,  I  worship  your  toes, 
Flower  of  the  lily  or  flower  of  the  rose." 

Then  the  girl  Brigitta,  she  that  had  the  red-gold 
hair  and  the  eyes  like  pale  glass,  thrust  her  face 
very  near  to  me  and  said,  laughing,  "  Messer  Lappo, 
Messer  Lappo,  who  is  your  sweetheart  ?" 

And  I,  who  was  ever  ready  with  a  brisk  compli- 
ment to  pretty  maid  or  pretty  woman,  or  pretty 
matron,  answered  her  as  swiftly  as  you  please, 
"She  shall  be  named  by  your  name,  dainty,  if 
you  will  lend  me  a  kiss  of  the  lips." 

And,  indeed,  I  wished  she  would  give  me  my 
will,  for  at  that  time  I  had  a  great  desire  for  Bri- 
gitta; but  she  only  pinched  up  her  face  to  a  grin, 
and  answered  me,  teasingly,  "Nay,  I  cannot  kiss 
you;  I  think  you  have  a  Ghibelline  mouth." 
7 


THE    GOD    OF    LOVE 

Now  this  seemed  to  me  a  foolish  answer  as 
well  as  a  pert  one,  for,  besides  that  I  was  ever  a 
Guelph  and  a  Red,  I  think  that  politics  have  no 
business  to  interfere  with  the  pleasant  commerce 
and  suave  affairs  of  love,  so  I  answered  her  re- 
provingly. "Kisses  have  no  causes,"  said  I;  "I 
will  kiss  Guelph-wise;  I  will  kiss  Ghibelline-wise; 
I  will  kiss  Red;  I  will  kiss  Yellow;  it's  all  one  to 
me,  so  long  as  the  mouth  be  like  yours,  as  pink 
as  a  cleft  pomegranate,  and  the  teeth  as  white  as 
its  seeds." 

Now  at  this  Jacintha,  who  had  eyes  the  color  of 
amethysts,  and  dark  hair  with  a  purplish  stain  in 
it,  wagged  a  finger  at  me  reprovingly,  saying,  "I 
fear  you  are  a  wanton  wooer."  And  at  this  all  the 
other  girls  laughed  like  the  jolly  wantons  they 
were. 

But  I  pretended  to  take  it  all  mighty  seriously, 
and  answered  as  solemnly  as  any  philosopher, 
"Never  say  it,  never  think  it.  I  am  the  golden 
rose  of  constancy;  I  have  loved  a  lass  for  three 
days  on  end,  and  never  yawned  once." 

Now,  while  I  was  talking  thus,  and  pulling  my 
face  to  keep  it  from  laughing,  the  girl  that  was 
named  Barbara  had  come  up  very  close  to  me, 
and  I  was  minded  to  slip  my  arm  about  her  waist 
and  draw  her  closer  with  a  view  to  the  kissing 
of  lips.  But  she  had  only  neighbored  me  to  mock 
me,  for  she  cried  aloud,  "  Mirror  of  chivalry,  I  will 
8 


THE   MAY-DAY   QUEEN 

give  you  a  Guelph  cuff  on  your  Ghibelline  cheek." 
And  as  she  spoke,  being  a  girl  of  spirit,  she  kept 
her  word  very  roundly,  and  fetched  me  a  box  on 
the  ear  with  her  brown  hand  that  made  my  wits 
sing. 

Now  this  was  more  than  my  philosophy  could 
stomach,  so  I  made  a  grab  at  her,  but  she  dipped 
from  my  outstretched  fingers  and  slipped  into  the 
midst  of  the  crowd  of  other  girls,  and  straightway 
I  dropped  from  my  parapet  and  ran  after  her, 
vowing  the  merriest,  pleasantest  skelping.  How- 
ever, she  was  too  swift  for  me,  and  too  nimble, 
capering  behind  this  girl  and  that  girl,  and  ever 
eluding  me  when  I  seemed  to  be  on  the  point  of 
seizing  the  minx,  till  at  last,  what  with  laughing 
and  running  and  calling,  my  breath  failed  me,  and 
I  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  pretty  jades,  panting. 

"Nay,  I  am  fairly  winded,"  I  protested.  "If 
some  sweet  she  do  not  give  me  a  kiss,  I  shall  die 
of  despair." 

Then  Brigitta,  who  was  nearest  to  me,  came 
nearer  with  a  kind  look  in  her  strange  eyes.  "Nay 
then,"  she  said,  "for  your  song's  sake,  and  to  save 
your  life."  So  she  said  and  so  she  did,  for  she 
kissed  me  full  on  the  mouth  before  all  of  them, 
and,  indeed,  this  was  the  first  time  I  had  kissed 
her,  though  I  thank  Heaven  it  was  not  the  last. 

And  because  there  is  nothing  so  contagious  as 
kindness  and  so  stimulating  as  a  good  example, 
9 


THE    GOD    OF   LOVE 

the  other  girls  were  now  ripe  and  ready  to  do  as 
she  did,  and  Jacintha  cried,  "I  will  be  generous, 
too!"  and  set  her  red  lips  where  Brigitta's  kiss  had 
rested,  and  then  one  kissed  me  and  another,  and 
at  the  end  of  it  all,  Barbara  herself,  that  had  been 
so  ready  with  her  fingers,  surrendered  and  kissed 
me  too.  And  it  was  while  she  was  kissing  me,  and 
I  was  making  rather  a  long  business  of  it,  seeing 
how  she  was  the  last  to  be  kissed,  and  how  she 
had  provoked  me,  that  there  came  unobserved 
into  our  group  another  youth  whose  coming  I  had 
not  noticed,  being  so  busy  on  pleasant  business. 

But  I  heard  a  very  sweet  and  tunable  voice  speak, 
and  the  voice  asked,  "When  the  air  is  so  brisk  with 
kisses,  is  there  never  a  kiss  for  me  ?"  And  I  looked 
up  from  the  lips  of  Barbara  and  saw  that  my  very 
dear  friend,  Messer  Guido  Cavalcanti,  was  newly 
of  our  company. 

It  is  many  a  long  year  since  my  dear  friend 
Messer  Guido  dei  Cavalcanti  died  of  that  disas- 
trous exile  to  which,  by  the  cynical  irony  of  fate, 
my  other  dear  friend,  Messer  Dante  dei  Alighieri, 
was  foredestined  to  doom  him.  That  sadness  has 
nothing  to  do  with  this  sadness,  and  I  here  give 
it  the  go-by.  But  at  nights  when  I  lie  awake  in 
my  cell — a  thing  which,  I  thank  my  stars  happens 
but  rarely — or  in  the  the  silence  of  some  more  than 
usually  quiet  dawn,  I  seem  to  see  him  again  as  I 
saw  him  that  morning,  so  blithe,  so  bright,  so  de- 


THE    MAY-DAY   QUEEN 

lightful.  Never  was  so  fine  a  gentleman.  It  is  to 
be  regretted,  perhaps,  that  his  was  not  a  spirit 
that  believes.  I  that  am  a  sinner  have  no  qualms 
and  uncertainties,  but  credit  what  I  am  told  to 
credit,  and  no  more  said.  After  all,  why  say  more  ? 
But  Messer  Guido  was  of  a  restless,  discontented, 
fretting  spirit,  that  chafed  at  command  and  con- 
vention, and  would  yield  nothing  of  doubt  for  the 
sake  of  an  easy  life.  Well,  he  was  the  handsomest 
man  I  have  ever  known,  and  he  never  seemed  fairer 
than  on  that  May  morning  —  Lord,  Lord,  how 
many  centuries  ago  it  seems! — when  he  came  upon 
me  in  the  sunlit  Place  of  the  Holy  Felicity,  and 
thereafter,  for  the  first  time,  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Messer  Dante. 

When  the  girls  heard  that  complaint  of  Messer 
Guide's,  they  gathered  about  him  noisily,  crying, 
"Surely,  Messer  Guido,  surely!"  and  pushing  their 
impudent  faces  close  to  his,  and  catching  him  with 
their  hands,  for  indeed  Messer  Guido  was  a  very 
comely  personage,  and  one  that  was  always  well- 
eyed  by  women. 

But  it  seems  that  for  all  his  asking  he  had  little 
mind  for  the  amorous  traffic,  for  he  laughingly 
disengaged  himself  from  the  girls,  and  I  said  to 
him,  pretending  to  be  jealous,  "If  you  taste  of 
their  bounty,  I  shall  tell  Monna  Giovanna" — for 
so  was  named  the  lady  he  loved — "and  then 
you  will  weep  red  tears.' ' 


THE    GOD    OF    LOVE 

Messer  Guido  pointed  to  me  with  a  mock  air 
of  indignation.  "See  what  it  is,"  he  said,  "to  take 
a  traitor  to  one's  heart."  He  ran  his  laughing 
eyes  over  the  little  knot  of  us,  and  went  on,  "  Sweet 
ladies,  and  you,  sour  gentleman,  I  have  news  for 
you." 

But  I  protested,  drolling  him,  for  it  was  always 
our  custom  when  we  met  to  toss  jests  and  mockery 
to  and  fro,  as  children  toss  a  ball.  "Do  not  heed 
him,"  I  said,  "Guido's  news  is  always  eight  days 
old." 

Then  the  girls  laughed  at  him,  for  I  think  in 
their  hearts  they  were  vexed  because  he  had  not 
taken  their  kisses — at  least,  most  of  them;  for  I  have 
it  in  mind  that  Brigitta  was  content  with  my  kiss- 
ing and  none  other.  But  Guido  was  not  to  be 
downed  by  their  laughter. 

"This  is  not  an  hour  old,"  he  said.  "You 
should  all  be  at  the  Signory.  The  fair  ladies  of 
Florence  have  chosen  Monna  Beatrice,  of  the 
Portinari,  for  the  queen  of  their  May  festival,  and 
will  bear  her  about  the  city  presently  in  triumph." 

Now  this  was  no  piece  of  news  for  me,  but  I  was 
where  I  was  for  a  reason,  which  was  to  meet  Messer 
Dante.  It  was  news  to  the  girls,  though,  for  Bri- 
gitta cried,  "Monna  Beatrice,  she  who  has  been 
away  from  Florence  these  nine  years  ?"  and  Ja- 
cintha  questioned,  "Monna  Beatrice!  Is  she 
daughter  of  Folco  Portarini  that  builds  hospitals  ?" 
12 


THE    MAY-DAY    QUEEN 

and  Barbara  sighed,  "Monna  Beatrice,  whom 
some  call  the  loveliest  girl  in  the  city  ?" 

And  Guido  gave  to  their  several  questions  a  single 
answer:  "Even  she.  For  her  beauty's  sake  and 
in  compliment  to  Messer  Folco,  because  he  builds 
hospitals." 

Now,  though  I  had  little  interest  in  this  news  of 
Guide's,  I  was  so  glad  of  his  coming  that  I  was  as 
ready  to  be  rid  of  the  girls  by  this  time  as  I  had 
been  eager  before  to  keep  them  about  me.  So  I 
waved  my  hand  at  them  as  housewives  wave  their 
hands  to  scare  the  chickens,  and  I  called  to  them: 
"So!  Away  with  you  girls  to  join  the  merry- 
making. I  will  kiss  you  all  another  day." 

Then  the  girls  began  to  mock  at  me  again,  and 
Jacintha  hailed  me  as  prince  of  poets,  and  Brigitta, 
half  laughing  and  half  earnest,  called  me  prince  of 
lovers,  and  Barbara  shot  out  her  pink  tongue  at 
me,  saying,  "  Prince  of  liars !" 

Straightway  I  made  as  if  I  would  catch  them 
and  slap  them,  and  they  all  ran  away  laughing, 
and  Messer  Guido  and  I  were  left  alone,  at  the 
corner  of  the  bridge  of  the  Holy  Felicity,  with  the 
image  of  the  God  of  Love  hard  by. 

"Good-bye,  lilies  of  life!"  I  called  after  the  fly- 
ing fugitives,  kissing  my  hand  at  them;  and  then  I 
turned  to  my  friend.  "This  lady  Beatrice,"  I 
questioned,  "is  she  very  fair?"  For  though  I  had 
heard  not  a  little  of  her  return  to  our  city  from 
13 


THE   GOD    OF    LOVE 

Fiesole,  I  had  not  yet  seen  her,  and  I  am  always 
curious — I  mean  I  was  then  always  curious — about 
fair  women. 

"Angel  fair,"  Guido  answered,  briskly.  "Our 
Florence  is  ever  a  nest  of  loveliness,  but  no  one  of 
her  women  is  fairer  than  Folco's  daughter." 

"Maybe  she  seems  fairer,  being  strange,"  I 
hinted,  quizzically.  "Are  we  not  Athenian  in  our 
love  of  new  things  ?" 

Guido  answered  me  very  gravely.  "  I  think  we 
should  have  held  her  as  precious  if  she  had  never 
left  us." 

Now,  I  had  never  given  the  affairs  of  the  Porti- 
nari  many  thoughts,  and  though  I  had  heard  how 
Messer  Folco  had  brought  his  daughter  home  of 
late  from  Fiesole,  I  knew  nothing  more  than  so 
much,  wherefore  I  questioned,  less  because  I 
cared,  than  because  Messer  Guido  seemed  to  care, 
"Why  did  she  leave  us?" 

Guido  seated  himself  by  my  side  on  the  parapet, 
swinging  his  slim  legs,  and  told  the  tale  he  wanted 
to  tell. 

"It  is  nine  years  ago.  She  was  one  of  those 
fairy  children — I  remember  her  very  well — too 
divine,  too  bright,  it  might  seem,  to  hold  in  the 
four  walls  of  any  mortal  mansion.  That  as  it 
may,  the  physicans  found  her  a  delicate  piece  of 
flesh,  and  so  banished  her  out  of  our  hot  Florence 
into  the  green  coolness  of  the  hills." 
14 


THE    MAY-DAY   QUEEN 

I  do  not  think  that  I  cared  very  much  about 
what  Messer  Guido  was  telling  me,  but  because  I 
loved  him  I  feigned  to  care. 

"And  has  she  lived  there  ever  since?"  I  asked, 
with  such  show  of  interest  as  I  could  muster. 

And  he  answered  me,  very  lively.  "There  she 
has  lived  ever  since.  But  now  Messer  Folco,  being 
reassured  of  her  health,  brings  her  to  Florence, 
where  her  beauty  will  break  hearts,  I  promise." 

I  think  he  sighed  a  little,  and  I  know  that  I 
laughed  as  I  spoke.  "Well,  I  that  have  broken 
my  heart  a  hundred  times  will  break  it  again  for 
her,  if  she  pleases." 

Messer  Guido  grinned  at  me  a  little  maliciously. 
"Better  not  let  Messer  Simone  dei  Bardi  hear 
you,"  he  said,  and  his  words  suddenly  brought 
before  me  the  image  of  a  very  notable  figure  in  the 
Florence  of  my  youth,  a  very  forward  man  in  the 
squabbles  of  the  Yellows  and  the  Reds. 

It  would,  I  think,  be  very  hard  to  make  any 
stranger  acquainted  with  the  state  of  our  city  at 
this  time,  for  it  was  more  split  and  fissured  with 
feuds  and  dissensions  than  a  dried  melon  rind.  It 
had  pleased  Heaven  in  its  wisdom  to  decide  that 
it  was  not  enough  for  us  to  be  distraught  with  the 
great  flagrant  brawls  between  the  Guelphs  and  the 
Ghibellines,  between  those  that  stood  for  Roman 
Emperor  and  those  that  stood  for  Roman  Pope. 
No,  we  must  needs  be  divided  again  into  yet 
15 


THE    GOD   OF    LOVE 

further  factions  and  call  ourselves  Reds  and  Yel- 
lows, and  cut  one  another's  throats  in  the  name 
of  these  two  colors  with  more  heat  and  zeal  in  the 
cutting  than  had  ever  stirred  the  blood  of  the 
partisans  of  the  two  great  camps. 

This  Red  and  Yellow  business  began  simply 
enough  and  grimly  enough  in  a  quarrel  between 
two  girls,  distant  kinswomen,  of  the  House  of  the 
Casa  Bella.  One  of  these  girls  maintained,  at  some 
merry-making,  that  she  was  comelier  than  the 
other,  which  that  other  very  stoutly  denied,  and 
from  the  bandying  of  words  they  came  to  the 
bandying  of  blows,  and  because  it  is  never  a  pretty 
sight  to  see  two  women  at  clapper-claws  together, 
those  about  bestirred  themselves  to  sunder  the 
sweet  amazons,  and  in  the  process  of  pulling  them 
apart  more  blows  were  given  and  exchanged  be- 
tween those  that  sought  at  first  to  be  peacemakers, 
and  there  were  many  hot  words  and  threats  of 
vengeance. 

From  this  petty  beginning,  like  your  monu- 
mental oak  from  your  pigmy  acorn,  there  grew  up 
a  great  feud  between  the  families  of  the  two  girls, 
and  like  a  poison  the  plague  of  the  quarrel  spread 
to  Florence,  and  in  a  twinkling  men  were  divided 
against  each  other  in  a  deathly  hatred  that  in  their 
hearts  knew  little  of  the  original  quarrel,  and  cared 
nothing  at  all  for  it.  But  as  all  parties  must  needs 
have  a  nickname,  whether  chosen  or  conferred,  the 
16 


THE   MAY-DAY   QUEEN 

first  of  these  parties  was  called  Yellow,  because  the 
girl  that  began  the  quarrel  had  yellow  eyes;  and 
the  other  party  in  mockery  called  itself  Red,  be- 
cause the  girl  that  was,  as  it  were,  the  patron  saint 
of  their  side  of  the  squabble  had  red  hair.  These 
Reds  and  Yellows  fought  as  fiercely  in  Florence  as 
ever  the  Blues  and  the  Greens  in  Constantinople  of 
old  time.  And  in  our  city  the  Donati  sided  with 
the  Reds,  and  he  Cerchi  with  the  Yellows,  and  all 
that  loved  either  of  these  great  houses  chose  their 
color  and  conducted  themselves  accordingly.  But 
you  must  not  suppose  that  the  heads  of  the  great 
houses  of  the  Donati  and  the  Cerchi  publicly 
avowed  themselves  as  the  leaders  of  these  whim- 
sical factions,  however  much  they  might,  for  their 
own  purposes,  foster  and  encourage  their  exist- 
ence. At  the  time  of  which  I  write  Messer  Guido 
Cavalcanti  was  ostensibly  the  chief  man  among  the 
Reds,  and  the  chief  man  among  the  Yellows  was 
Messer  Simone  dei  Bardi. 

Here,  in  consequence  of  this  business  of  Reds 
and  Yellows,  was  a  thickening  of  the  imbroglio  of 
Florentine  life.  For  now  it  was  not  enough  to  be 
told  whether  a  man  was  Guelph  or  Ghibelline  in 
order  to  know  how  to  deal  with  him.  It  was  not 
merely  prudent  but  even  imperative  to  inquire  fur- 
ther, for  a  rooted  Guelph  might  be  Red  or  Yellow 
in  this  other  scuffle,  and  so  might  a  rooted  Ghibel- 
line. Thus  our  poor  City  of  the  Lilies  was  become 


THE   GOD   OF    LOVE 

a  very  Temple  of  Discord,  and  at  any  moment  a 
chance  encounter  in  the  street,  a  light  word  let  fly — 
nay,  even  no  more  than  a  slight  glance — might  be 
the  signal  for  drawn  swords  and  runnels  of  blood 
among  the  cobbles.  Truly,  therefore,  it  is  not  to 
be  denied  that  for  such  poor  gentlemen  as,  like 
myself,  desired  their  ease,  together  with  much  sing- 
ing and  kissing  and  sipping,  Florence  was  by  no 
means  an  Arcadia.  And  yet  there  was  no  one  of 
us  that  would  willingly  have  lived  elsewhere,  for 
all  the  quarrelling  and  all  the  feuds. 

Now  I  do  not  say  it  because  I  was  a  Red  myself, 
but  I  do  think  that  the  Reds  were  of  a  better 
temper  than  the  Yellows.  Very  certainly  no  one 
was  less  eager  to  fan  the  flames  of  these  quarrellings 
and  feuds  than  the  man  that  was  by  my  side, 
Messer  Guido  Cavalcanti.  And  no  less  certainly 
of  those  that  were  hottest  for  quarrellings  and 
keenest  to  keep  old  feuds  alive,  and  to  enforce  dis- 
tinctions of  faction,  and  make  much  of  party 
cries,  there  was  no  one  hotter  and  keener  than 
Messer  Simone  dei  Bardi,  whose  name  had  just 
come  to  Messer  Guide's  lips. 

Messer  Simone  came  of  a  house  that  was  of  ex- 
cellent good  repute  in  our  city.  Bankers  his  folk 
were,  very  busy  and  prosperous,  and  bankers  they 
had  been  for  many  a  long  day  before  Messer 
Simone  was  begotten.  Messer  Simone  was  not 
the  greatest  heir,  but  I  think  in  his  way  he  was  the 
18 


THE    MAY-DAY   QUEEN 

most  notable,  though  his  way  was  not  quite  the 
way  of  the  family,  no  less  steady-going  than  hon- 
orable, from  which  he  came.  For,  indeed,  it  was 
his  chief  delight  to  lavish  the  money  which  his 
forebears  had  amassed,  and  there  was  no  one  in 
all  Florence  more  prompt  than  he  to  fling  hoarded 
florins  out  of  the  window.  By  rights  he  should 
have  been  a  free-companion,  and  received  on  the 
highroad  at  the  heads  of  a  levy  of  lesser  devils,  for 
of  a  truth  he  was  too  turbulent  and  quarrelsome 
for  Florence,  which  is  saying  much.  The  men  of 
my  spring  days,  as  I  have  written,  were  ranged  in 
many  ways  of  opposition,  Guelph  against  Ghibel- 
line,  Red  against  Yellow,  Donati  against  Cerchi, 
and  Messer  Simone  should  have  been  content  to 
be  Guelph  and  Yellow  and  Cerchi,  but  at  times  he 
carried  himself  as  if  he  were  ranged  against  every 
one,  or  perhaps  I  should  rather  say  that  he  carried 
himself  as  if  his  single  will  was  above  all  the  wran- 
glers of  others,  and  that  it  was  given  to  him  to  do 
as  he  pleased,  heedless  of  the  feelings  of  any  faction. 
Had  he  had  but  the  wit  to  balance  his  arrogance, 
Messer  Simone  might  have  been  a  great  man  in 
Florence.  As  it  proved,  he  was  only  a  great  plague. 
Now  I  laughed  at  Guide's  words,  for  it  seemed 
strange  to  me  to  think  of  Messer  Simone  dei  Bardi 
as  a  wooer  of  countrified  damsels.  "What  has  that 
Bull-face  to  do  with  it?"  I  asked,  and  whistled 
mockingly  after  the  asking. 


THE    GOD   OF   LOVE 

Guido  still  looked  grave.  "Why,  I  think  his 
fist  gapes,  finger  and  thumb,  to  seize  Monna  Bea- 
trice," he  said,  and  he  said  no  more,  but  looked 
as  if  he  could  say  much. 

Here  was  an  oracle  anxious  to  be  interrogated, 
so  I  questioned  him  further.  I  knew  by  report 
that  the  girl  was  fair,  but  I  could  not  think  of  her 
in  any  fashion  as  a  maid  for  Messer  Simone,  and 
I  conveyed  my  doubts  to  Guido.  "Is  the  girl  to 
be  snared  so  ?"  I  asked. 

Guido  looked  cryptic.  "That  is  for  father  Folco 
to  settle,"  he  said.  "And  father  Folco  is  a  man 
that  loves  his  fellow-men,  but  would  have  his  chil- 
dren obey  him  even  to  the  death,  like  a  Roman 
father  of  old." 

I  began  to  take  the  matter  hotly,  thinking  it 
over  and  looking  at  it  this  way  and  that  way. 
"Well,  if  I  were  a  woman,"  I  protested,  "which  I 
thank  Heaven  I  am  not,"  I  interpolated,  fervently, 
"  I  would  drown  in  Arno  sooner  than  be  bride  to 
Simone  of  the  Bardi." 

Guido  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  was  a  man 
that  believed  anything  of  women.  "Yet  I  think 
Vittoria  loves  him,"  he  said,  softly,  more  as  if  to 
himself  than  to  me. 

But,  bless  you,  I  caught  him  up  nimbly,  seeing 
the  weakness  of  his  argument.  "Vittoria,  the 
courtesan!  She  loves  any  man,  every  man." 

Guido  looked   at  me  very  thoughtfully.     Then 


THE   MAY-DAY    QUEEN 

he  said,  slowly:  "I  will  tell  you  a  tale  I  heard 
yesterday.  Some  while  ago  our  bull-headed  Si- 
mone,  being  with  Vittoria  at  supper  at  her  house, 
and  as  drunk  as  is  his  custom  at  the  tail  of  the 
day,  dozed  on  a  sofa  while  the  company  began  to 
talk  of  fair  women." 

I  was  horrified  at  the  ill-manners  of  the  hog, 
though  it  all  seemed  of  a  piece  with  his  habitual 
hoggishness.  "One  should  never  be  too  drunk," 
I  averred,  "to  talk  on  that  illuminating  theme." 

Now  Guido  was  fretted  at  my  interruption,  and 
he  showed  it  with  a  frown  and  a  silencing  gesture 
of  his  hand.  "Peace,  Lappo,  peace!"  he  cried; 
"this  is  my  story.  Some  praised  this  lady,  some 
praised  that,  all,  as  was  due  to  their  guesthood, 
giving  the  palm  to  Vittoria,  till  some  one  said  there 
lived  a  lady  at  Fiesole  that  was  lovelier  than  a 
dream." 

"Who  was  this  nonesuch  ?"  I  asked,  all  agog  over 
any  word  of  loveliness. 

Guido  chastened  my  impatience  with  a  grave 
glance.  "I  come  to  that,"  he  continued.  "She 
was  named  Beatrice,  daughter  of  Folco  Portinari, 
and  he  that  praised  her  averred  that  whoso  might 
wed  her  would  be  the  happiest  of  mortals." 

Now,  though  the  air  was  warm,  I  shivered  at  his 
words,  as  if  it  had  suddenly  turned  cold,  for,  in- 
deed, I  was  never  a  marrying  man,  and  my  pleas- 
antest  memories  of  women  are  not  memories  of 


THE    GOD   OF    LOVE 

any  wife  of  mine.  "Marriage  —  and  happiness?" 
I  said,  questioning  and  grinning.  "I  am  not  of 
his  mind." 

Guido  looked  at  me  with  a  good-humored  smile, 
as  one  that  was  prepared  to  bear  with  my  interrup- 
tions. "Nor  he  of  yours,"  he  answered.  "Now, 
as  they  talked  thus,  our  Simone  stirred  in  his  stupor, 
and  swore  that  if  this  were  true  he  would  marry 
the  maiden.  Vittoria  laughed,  and  her  laughter 
so  teased  the  ruffian  that  he  swore  a  great  oath  he 
would  take  any  wager  he  would  wed  this  exquisite 
maiden." 

"Who  took  him?"  I  asked.  The  tale  promised 
to  be  interesting,  and  spurred  my  curiosity. 

Guido  went  on  with  his  narrative.  "No  man. 
Simone's  luck  is  proverbial  as  his  enmity  deadly. 
But  Vittoria  grinned  at  him,  swearing  no  such 
maid  would  marry  him,  and  at  last  so  goaded  him 
that  he  defied  her  to  a  wager.  Then  she  dared 
him  to  this — staking  her  great  emerald,  in  a  ring 
that  the  French  prince  gave  her,  on  the  terms  that 
if  he  failed  to  gain  the  daughter  of  Folco  Portinari 
he  was  in  all  honor  and  solemnity  to  marry  her, 
Vittoria." 

I  remember  as  well  as  if  it  were  yesterday  my 
amazement  when  I  heard  this  story,  and  am  in- 
clined now  to  uplift  my  hands  as  I  then  uplifted 
them  in  wonder,  and  am  inclined  to  say  again,  as 
I  said  then,  "Gods,  what  a  wager!" 
22 


THE   MAY-DAY  'QUEEN 

Guido  seemed  amused  at  my  astonishment,  for 
he  laughed  a  little  while  softly  to  himself,  and  then 
went  on  with  his  tale-telling.  "Simone's  red  gills 
winced,  like  a  dying  fish,  but  he  was  too  drunk  to 
qualify.  He  swore  a  foul  oath,  'I  will  marry  this 
lily,'  says  he,  'within  a  year,  and  if  I  do  not,  why 
I  will  wed  you,  you — '  And  he  called  Vittoria  by 
such  lewd  names  as  your  wit  can  picture.  But  she, 
turning  no  hair,  called  for  pen  and  parchment,  and 
had  it  fairly  engrossed  and  Simone's  sprawling 
signature  duly  witnessed  before  even  the  company 
departed.  So  it  stands — Simone  must  win  the  maid 
or  wed  the  light  o'  love." 

Then  I  said,  "I  take  it  he  will  win  the  maid." 

Guido  nodded  his  head  gravely.  He  did  not 
like  Simone  any  better  than  I  did,  but  he  had  a 
way  of  accepting  facts  more  readily.  "Simone 
mostly  wins  his  wish.  See  how  far  he  has  gone 
already.  He  has  so  worked  it  that  her  father  has 
brought  his  lovely  daughter  from  the  hills  to  the 
city.  Old  Folco  favors  him,  and  small  wonder, 
Messer  Simone  being  the  power  he  is  in  Florence." 
As  for  this  triumph  of  Folco's  daughter  through  our 
streets,  I  take  it  to  be  rather  Simone's  displaying 
of  his  prize,  that  all  men  may  envy  him  his  marvel." 

For  my  part,  I  protested  very  honestly  and  from 
the  core  of  my  heart.     "If  I  were  old  Portinari, 
I  would  rather  rot  in  exile  than  have  Simone  dei 
Bardi  for  my  son-in-law." 
23 


THE   GOD   OF    LOVE 

Guido  tapped  me  on  the  shoulder.  "That  is," 
he  said,  "because  you  have  the  heart  of  an  amorist 
that  would  let  none  be  lover  save  himself." 

I  laughed  in  his  face,  and  gave  him  the  lie  courte- 
ously. "No,  because  I  have  the  heart  of  a  poet, 
and  the  full-favored  brute  vexes  my  gorge." 

Guido  still  seemed  to  mock  me.  "As  you  will," 
he  said.  "Shall  we  go  to  the  Signory  and  stare  at 
the  pageant?" 

I  shook  my  head.  I  was  sorry  to  deny  Messer 
Guido  in  anything  or  to  deprive  myself  of  the  com- 
fort of  his  company.  But  I  had  come  to  that  place 
to  keep  a  tryst.  "I  cannot,"  I  said.  "I  wait  here 
for  young  Dante  of  the  Alighieri." 

Now  Messer  Dante  and  I  had  been  friends  for 
some  years  past,  friends  not  indeed  because  we  were 
both  Florentines,  but  perhaps  I  should  say  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  we  were  both  Florentines.  For  in 
those  days,  as  in  the  days  before  them,  and  in  the 
days  that  since  have  come  to  pass,  while  every 
Florentine  loved  Florence  with  all  the  passion  of 
an  old  Roman  for  the  city  of  Romulus,  Florentine 
very  often  loved  Florentine  as  day  loves  night, 
eld  youth,  health  sickness,  poverty  riches,  or  any 
other  pair  of  opposites  you  please.  But  I  was 
never  much  of  a  politician,  I  thank  my  stars,  and 
though  a  good  enough  Guelph  to  pass  muster  in  a 
crowd,  and  a  good  enough  Red  to  cry  "Haro!" 
upon  the  Yellows  if  need  were,  I  bothered  my 
24 


THE    MAY-DAY   QUEEN 

head  very  little  about  such  brawls  so  long  as  there 
were  songs  to  sing,  vintages  to  sip,  and  pretty  girls 
to  kiss. 

In  Messer  Dante  I  found  one  of  my  own  age,  or, 
perhaps,  a  little  less  that  was  in  those  days  scarcely 
more  pricked  by  the  itch  political  than  I  myself 
was,  and  for  a  while  he  and  I  had  been  jolly  com- 
panions in  the  merry  pleasant  ways  of  youth.  But 
of  late  days  this  Dante,  that  was  ever  a  wayward 
fellow,  had  suddenly  turned  away  from  sports  and 
joys,  and  devoted  himself  with  an  unwholesome 
fervor  to  study,  and  seemed,  as  it  were,  lost  to  me 
in  the  Humanities.  Which  is  why  I  had  made  a 
tryst  with  him  that  day  to  upbraid  him  and  bring 
him  to  a  better  sense,  and  so  I  could  not  go  with 
Messer  Guido  as  he  was  good  enough  to  wish. 

Guido  looked  at  me  with  a  sudden  interest. 
"You  are  much  his  friend,  are  you  not?"  he  ques- 
tioned. 

Now  I  had  for  long  been  mightily  taken  with 
Messer  Dante,  and,  indeed,  for  a  while  I  seemed 
to  see  the  world  as  he  saw  it,  and  to  speak 
as  he  would  have  spoken.  I  am  of  that  mood  now, 
after  all  these  years — at  least,  in  a  measure.  But 
just  then  I  was  in  a  reaction  and  vexed,  and  I 
voiced  my  vexation  swiftly.  "Why,  I  thought  so 
once.  But  I  wash  my  hands  of  him.  We  were 
as  one  in  the  playthings  of  youth.  Now  he  dances 
no  more  to  my  piping  He  will  not  laugh  when 
25 


THE    GOD   OF    LOVE 

my  wit  tickles  him.  He  is  no  longer  for  drinking  or 
kissing,  for  dicing  or  righting.  He  has  a  cold  fit 
of  wisdom  come  upon  him,  and  rests  ever  with 
Messer  Brunette,  the  high  dry-as-dust,  reading  of 
Virgilius,  Tullius,  and  other  ancients,  as  if  learn- 
ing were  better  than  living.  I  have  made  a  tryst 
with  him  here  to  upbraid  him,  but  I  doubt  he 
will  keep  it." 

"  I  know  little  of  him,"  Guido  said,  thoughtfully. 
"I  should  like  to  know  more,  to  know  much." 

Now,  it  was  a  great  compliment  to  any  youth 
in  our  city  that  Messer  Guido  should  desire  his 
acquaintance,  yet  I  feared  in  this  case  he  had 
made  a  rash  choice. 

"Lord,"  I  said,  "he  is  hard  to  know.  Yet, 
laugh  if  you  will,  but  I  think  there  are  great  things 
in  him." 

Messer  Guido  did  not  laugh.  Rather  he  looked 
grave.  "Pray  God  there  be,"  he  said.  "For  in- 
deed the  age  lacks  greatness." 

"So  every  man  has  said  in  every  age,"  I  pro- 
tested. "But  our  Dante  baffles  me.  He  changes 
his  moods  as  a  chameleon  changes  his  coat,  and 
feeds  each  mood  so  full.  Yesteryear  he  was  mad 
for  the  open  air,  and  the  games,  and  the  joy  of  life. 
To-day  he  is  mewed  in  the  cloisters  of  knowledge. 
He  is  damned  in  his  Latin.  I  will  wait  no  more 
for  him." 

So  I  spoke  in  my  impatience,  and  made  as  if  to 
26 


THE    MAY-DAY   QUEEN 

go;  but  Guido  caught  me  by  the  sleeve  and  re- 
strained me,  saying,  "Why,  here,  as  I  think,  he 
comes,  by  way  of  the  bridge." 

Now,  even  as  he  spoke,  I  looked  where  he  looked, 
and  whom  should  I  see  coming  toward  us  on  the 
shady  side  of  the  bridge  than  this  very  lad  we  were 
talking  of,  and  with  him  Messer  Brunette,  the 
great  scholar.  So  I  went  on  with  a  new  anger  in 
my  voice,  "  It  is  he,  indeed,  in  Messer  Brunette's 
escort,"  and  then  I  plucked  Guido  by  the  arm  and 
pulled  him  round  about,  so  that  we  were  out  of  ken 
of  the  coming  pair.  "Let  us  stand  off  one  side  till 
he  be  alone." 

So  I  urged  and  so  I  persuaded,  and  Messer  Guido 
and  I,  that  were  curious  to  have  speech  with  Dante, 
but  had  no  desire  to  have  speech  with  the  elder, 
slipped  apart  and  hid  ourselves  in  the  shadow  of 
the  pillars  of  the  Arcade  that  faced  the  Portinari 
palace. 


II 

A   CHILD   AND   A    CHILD 

and  I  had  scarcely  taken  cover  when 
Messer  Brunette  came  into  view  on  the  lip 
of  the  bridge.  He  was  talking  as  he  walked,  but 
he  walked  and  talked  alone,  for  unperceived  by 
him  Dante  had  lagged  behind  and  stood  with  his 
elbows  rested  on  the  parapet  looking  down  at  Arno 
below  him.  Messer  Brunetto  was  discoursing  very 
learnedly  about  Messer  Virgilius,  and  how  he  did, 
in  a  measure,  form  and  model  himself  upon  Messer 
Homerus,  when  he  suddenly  became  aware  that  he 
was  wasting  his  periods  upon  empty  air — for  of  us 
where  we  lurked  he  knew  nothing.  Turning  round, 
he  saw  where  Dante  stood  pensive,  and  called  to 
him  sharply,  asking  him  why  he  dawdled. 

Dante,  thus  addressed,  raised  his  head  from  the 
cup  of  his  palms  and  his  elbows  from  the  parapet, 
and,  with  a  pleasant  smile  on  his  face,  came  down 
to  where  Messer  Brunetto  had  halted.  I  have 
never  known  a  man's  face  that  could  be  blither 
than  Dante's  when  he  smiled,  and  in  those  days, 
when  he  and  I  were  young  together,  before  that 
28 


A   CHILD   AND   A   CHILD 

happened  which  was  so  soon  to  happen,  I  had 
seen  him  smile  many  a  time,  though  for  the  most 
part  his  countenance  had  a  great  air  of  gravity. 
Now  he  and  Messer  Brunetto  stood  in  talk,  and 
from  where  I  lay  hid  I  could  catch  most  of  the 
words  these  two  spoke,  and  my  wit  was  nimble 
enough  to  piece  out  the  rest  at  my  convenience; 
and  you  must  take  it  with  a  good  will  that  what  I 
set  down  was  spoken  or  might  be  spoken  by  my 
friend.  And  the  first  I  heard  him  say  was  this,  in  a 
grave  voice,  "Forgive  me  for  lingering,  Master;  I 
was  listening  to  the  Song  of  the  River." 

And  Messer  Brunetto  echoed,  in  surprise:  "The 
Song  of  the  River!  What  in  the  name  of  all  the 
ancients  is  the  Song  of  the  River  ?" 

Messer  Dante  seemed  to  muse  for  a  while,  and 
then  I  heard  him  answer  his  master  in  that  strong 
voice  of  his,  that  even  then  was  deep  and  full,  and 
always  brought  to  my  mind  the  sound  of  a  bell. 

"The  Song  of  the  River,  the  Song  of  Life.  I 
cannot  sing  you  the  Song  of  the  River.  If  I  could 
tell  you  its  meaning,  I  should  be  a  greater  poet 
than  Virgilius." 

Messer  Brunetto  held  up  his  hands  in  a  horror 
that  was  only  part  pretended.  "Do  not  blas- 
pheme!" he  cried.  Dante  smiled  for  a  moment  at 
his  whimsical  vehemence,  and  then  went  on  with 
his  own  thoughts,  talking  as  one  that  mused  aloud. 

"  It  must  be  glorious  to  be  a  great  poet,  to  weave 
29 


THE    GOD    OF   LOVE 

one's  dreams  into  wonderful  words  that  live  in 
men's  hearts  forever.  Master,  I  would  rather  be 
a  great  poet  than  be  the  Emperor  of  Rome." 

Then  the  elder  looked  at  the  younger  with  a 
smile  and  shook  his  head  at  his  ambition.  "It  is 
given  to  few  to  be  great  poets;  there  have  been 
fewer  great  poets  than  emperors  since  the  world 
began." 

But  my  friend  was  not  to  be  so  put  off.  I  knew 
him  ever  to  be  persistent  when  once  his  mind  was 
made  up,  and  it  may  be  that  he  knew  well  enough 
that  such  warnings  had  been  addressed  idly  to 
all  the  great  poets  in  their  youth.  He  answered 
Messer  Brunetto  slowly. 

"  My  mother,  who  died  young — I  cannot  remem- 
ber her — dreamed  a  strange  dream  of  me.  She 
dreamed  that  I  stood  a  shepherd  beneath  a  laurel- 
tree,  and  strove  to  gather  the  leaves  thereof,  and 
failed  in  my  strivings  and  fell,  and  rose  again,  and 
lo!  no  longer  a  man,  but  a  peacock,  a  glory  of  gold 
and  purple." 

The  youth  paused  for  a  moment  as  if  he  lingered 
lovingly  over  the  bequeathed  vision,  then  he  ques- 
tioned Messer  Brunetto.  "What  could  this  dream 
mean,  Master  ?" 

Messer  Brunetto  looked  sour.  "Who  shall  say? 
Who  shall  guess?"  he  answered,  fretfully.  "Your 
peacock  is  a  vain  bird  with  a  harsh  voice." 

Dante  seemed  to  pay  no  heed  to  the  impatience 
3° 


A   CHILD   AND   A   CHILD 

or  the  disdain  of  his  master.  He  went  on  talking 
as  if  he  were  talking  to  himself,  or  to  some  con- 
genial companion  such  as  I  would  be. 

"Sometimes  I  dream  of  that  laurel-tree,  and  then 
I  wake  with  joy  in  my  heart  and  verses  humming 
in  my  brain.  They  vanish  when  I  try  to  set  them 
down,  but  they  sweeten  the  leave  of  the  day." 

I  think  Messer  Brunetto  did  not  like  the  turn 
which  his  pupil's  thoughts  had  taken.  "Dreams 
are  but  dreams,"  he  answered,  impatiently.  "Wis- 
dom, philosophy,  these  are  the  true  treasures. 
There  is  no  harm  in  a  Latin  ode  after  the  manner 
of  Messer  Ovidius,  but  for  the  most  part  poets  or 
those  that  call  themselves  such  are  foolish  fellows 
enough,  and  keep  very  bad  company.  Ply  your 
book,  my  son,  and  avoid  them." 

"Messer  Guido  Cavalcanti  is  a  poet,"  Dante 
objected,  firmly,  yet  gently,  for  he  was  speaking 
to  his  elder,  and  to  a  very  great  and  famous  man, 
and  he  always  carried  himself  with  a  becoming 
reverence  to  those  that  should  be  revered. 

The  scholar  smiled  a  little  acidly.  "He  is  of  a 
noble  house,  and  he  may  divert  himself  with  such 
trifles  and  no  harm  done." 

Then  I  saw  Dante  raise  his  head,  and  his  eyes 
flashed  and  his  cheeks  flushed.  "I,  too,  am  of  a 
noble  house,"  he  asserted,  proudly;  and  indeed 
this  was  true,  for  he  could  claim  descent  from 
people  of  very  pretty  genealogy.  "I,  too,  am  of 
31 


THE    GOD    OF    LOVE 

a  noble  house,"  he  insisted.  "I  derive  from  the 
Alighieri  of  Ferrara,  the  Frangipani  of  Rome. 
Heaven  my  witness,  that  matters  little,  but  to  be 
a  great  poet  would  matter  much." 

Messer  Brunette  patted  my  Dante  very  kindly 
on  the  shoulder,  and  looked  at  him  with  the  look 
that  old  men  wear  when  they  are  advising  young 
men. 

"I  have  better  hopes  for  you,"  he  declared,  "for 
I  swear  you  have  in  you  the  makings  of  a  pretty 
scholar." 

He  smiled  as  he  spoke,  paternally,  as  one  that 
feels  he  has  spoken  the  last  word  that  has  any 
need  to  be  spoken  on  any  matter  of  dispute. 

But  Dante  seemed  to  be  little  impressed  by  his 
advice,  and  he  showed  his  own  thoughts  in  his 
words,  for  when  he  spoke  it  was  rather  as  if  he 
were  speaking  to  himself  than  to  his  companion. 
"Am  I  a  fool  to  feel  these  stirrings  of  the  spirit? 
God  knows.  But  my  dreams  are  full  of  stars  and 
angels,  and  the  sound  of  sweet  words  like  many 
winds  and  many  waters.  And  then  I  wake  in  an 
exultation  and  the  words  die  on  my  lips." 

Messer  Brunetto  lifted  his  hands  in  protest. 
"Thank  Heaven  they  do  die.  It  must  needs  be 
so.  Purge  yourself  of  such  folly.  Poetry  died 
with  the  ancients.  Virtue,  my  young  friend,  not 
verses.  Will  you  dine  with  me  ?  We  will  eat 
beans  and  defy  Pythagoras." 
32 


A   CHILD    AND    A   CHILD 

Dante  shook  his  head. 

"I  thank  you,"  he  answered,  slowly,  and  I  sup- 
posed it  grieved  him  a  little  to  deny  so  wise  a  man, 
"but  I  may  not.  I  keep  a  tryst  here." 

Messer  Brunette  instantly  assumed  an  air  of 
alarm,  and  he  allowed  his  voice  to  tremble  as  he 
said,  "With  no  woman,  I  hope." 

Dante  looked  at  him  squarely.  "With  no 
woman,  I  swear.  I  have  no  more  to  do  with 
women.  What  woman  is  as  fair  as  philosophy,  as 
winsome  as  wisdom  ?" 

Messer  Brunetto  beamed  on  him  with  an  ad- 
miring smile. 

"Right,  my  son,  right!"  he  cried,  delighted. 
"Better  Seneca  for  you  than  sensuality;  Virgilius 
than  venery.  When  you  are  as  ripe  as  I,  you  may 
trifle  awhile  if  you  like  with  lightness."  Here  I, 
listening,  sniggered,  for  it  was  blown  about  the 
city  that  Messer  Brunetto  had  his  passions  or 
fancies  or  vagaries,  call  them  what  you  will,  and 
humored  them  out  of  school  hours.  "For  the 
present,"  he  went  on,  "read  deep  and  lie  chaste, 
and  so  farewell." 

He  patted  Dante  again  paternally  on  the  shoulder 
and  wished  him  good-day,  and  went  off  down  the 
street,  muttering  to  himself,  as  I  make  very  little 
doubt,  his  wonder  that  any  could  be  found  so  fool- 
ish as  to  wish  to  string  rhymes  together  when  they 
might  be  studying  the  divine  philosophies  of  the 
33 


THE    GOD   OF    LOVE 

ancients.  As  for  Messer  Dante,  he  stood  for 
a  while  where  his  master  had  left  him,  as  one  that 
was  deep  in  thought,  and  we,  though  we  had  a 
mind  to  spring  out  and  accost  him,  yet  refrained, 
for  I  knew  of  old  that  when  my  friend  was  deep  in 
his  reflections  he  was  sometimes  inclined  to  be 
vexed  with  those  that  disturbed  him.  So  we  still 
lingered  and  peeped,  and  presently  Dante  sighed 
and  went  over  to  where  the  bookstall  stood  and 
began  turning  over  some  of  the  parchments  that 
lay  on  the  board.  As  he  did  so  the  bookseller 
popped  his  head  out  at  him  from  the  booth,  as  a 
tortoise  from  his  shell,  and  I  never  beheld  tortoise 
yet  so  crisp  and  withered  as  this  human.  Messer 
Cecco  Bartolo  was  his  name.  And  Dante  ad- 
dressed him.  "Gaffer  Bookman,  Gaffer  Book- 
man, have  you  any  new  wares  ?" 

The  bookseller  dived  into  the  darkness  of  his 
shop  again  and  came  out  in  a  twinkling  with  an 
armful  of  papers,  which  he  flung  down  on  the 
board  before  Dante.  "There,"  he  said.  "There 
lie  some  manuscripts  that  came  in  a  chest  I 
bought  last  week.  Is  there  one  of  them  to  your 
taste  ?" 

We  watched  Dante  examining  the  manuscripts 
eagerly,  and  putting  the  most  part  of  them  im- 
patiently aside.  One  seemed  to  attract  his  atten- 
tion, for  he  gave  it  a  second  and  more  careful 
glance,  and  then  addressed  the  bookseller.  "This 
34 


A   CHILD   AND   A   CHILD 

seems  to  be  a  knightly  tale,"  he  said,  extending  the 
volume.  "What  do  you  ask  for  it?" 

The  bookseller  took  the  manuscript  from  him, 
glanced  at  it,  and  then  handed  it  back  to  him. 
"Take  it  or  leave  it,  three  florins  is  its  price." 

We  heard  Dante  sigh  a  little,  and  we  saw  Dante 
smile  a  little,  and  he  answered  the  bookseller, 
humorously:  "My  purse  is  as  lean  as  Pharaoh's 
kine,  but  the  story  opens  bravely,  and  a  good  tale 
is  better  than  shekels  or  bezants.  What  do  you 
buy  with  your  money  that  is  worth  what  you  sell 
for  it  ?" 

The  bookseller  shrugged  his  stooped  shoulders. 
"Food  and  drink  and  the  poor  rags  that  Adam's 
transgression  enforces  on  us." 

Dante  laughed  at  his  conceit.  "You  are  a 
merry  peddler,"  he  said,  and  took  out  of  his  pouch 
a  few  coins,  from  which  he  counted  scrupulously 
the  sum  that  the  bookseller  had  asked,  and  gave 
it  to  him.  Then  he  moved  slowly  away  from  the 
stall,  reading  in  his  new  purchase  until  he  came  to 
the  fountain  that  had  the  painted  statue  over  it. 
There  he  sat  himself  down  on  a  stone  bench  in  the 
angle  of  the  wall  and  buried  himself  in  his  book. 

And  by  now  we  were  resolved  to  address  him,  but 
again  we  were  diverted  from  our  purpose,  for  there 
came  by  a  little  company  of  merrymakers,  youths 
and  maidens,  that  were  making  sport  as  is  fit  for 
such  juvenals  in  that  season  of  felicity  which  is 
35 


THE    GOD   OF   LOVE 

named  May-day.  Some  had  pipes  and  some  had 
lutes  and  some  had  tambourines,  and  all  were  sing- 
ing as  loud  as  they  could  and  making  as  much 
noise  as  they  might,  and  when  they  came  into  the 
open  space  hard  by  the  fountain  they  paused  for 
a  while  in  their  progress,  and  broke  into  as  lively  a 
morris-dance  as  ever  I  had  seen  skipped.  How 
they  twisted  and  turned  and  tripped;  how  bravely 
they  made  music;  how  lustily  they  sang.  I  recall 
them  now,  those  bright  little  human  butterflies. 
I  can  see  the  pretty  faces  and  slim  figures  of  the 
girls,  the  blithe  carriage  of  the  lads.  The  musical 
tumult  that  they  make  seems  to  be  ringing  in  my 
ears  as  I  write,  and  my  narrow  room  widens  to  its 
harmony. 

But  would  you  believe  it,  no  sound  of  all  that 
singing  and  dancing  served  to  rouse  Messer  Dante 
for  one  moment  from  his  book.  Though  the  air 
was  full  of  shrill  voices  and  sweet  notes  and  the 
clapping  of  hands  and  the  flapping  fall  of  dancing 
feet,  he  remained  motionless,  and  never  once  lifted 
up  his  eyes  to  look  at  the  merry  crowd.  As  for 
the  dancers,  I  do  not  think  that  they  saw  him, 
certainly  they  paid  him  no  heed.  Why  should  such 
merry  fellows  as  they  take  note  of  a  book-worm 
while  there  were  songs  to  sing  and  tunes  to  turn 
and  dances  to  dance  ?  And  by-and-by,  when  they 
had  made  an  end  of  their  measure,  they  fell  into 
procession  again  and  went  away  as  quickly  as  they 
36 


A   CHILD   AND   A   CHILD 

had  come,  leaving  me  mightily  delighted  with  their 
entertainment.  As  they  trooped  off  over  the 
bridge,  Guido  and  I  made  up  our  minds  that  now 
we  would  have  speech  with  Dante;  so  we  came  out 
from  where  we  had  lain  hid  and  walked  softly 
across  the  space  that  divided  us  from  him,  and 
stood  by  his  side  and  called  his  name  loudly  into 
his  ears.  Then,  after  a  while,  but  not  at  all  at 
first  calling,  Dante  slowly  lifted  his  eyes  from  his 
book  and  looked  at  us,  and  the  look  on  his  face 
was  the  look  of  a  man  that  is  newly  wakened  from 
a  pleasurable  dream.  Then  he  smiled  salutation 
on  me,  for,  indeed,  I  believe  he  always  liked  me, 
and  recognizing  Messer  Guido,  he  rose  and  saluted 
him  courteously. 

"Now,  Heaven  bless  you,  brother,"  I  cried,  "that 
you  seem  to  sleep  in  the  midst  of  all  these  rumors." 

Dante  gazed  at  me  with  untroubled  curiosity. 
"What  rumors?"  he  asked,  indifferently. 

"Why,"  replied  Guido,  staring  at  him,  "here 
was  the  daintiest  dancing." 

Now  by  this  I  remembered  that  of  us  three 
present  two  were  not  known  one  to  the  other,  and 
I  hastened  to  amend  the  matter. 

"Nay,"  said  I,  "here  is  another  that  can  tell 
you  better  than  I.  Here  is  Messer  Guido  of  the 
Cavalcanti  that  has  kicked  heels  with  me  on  this 
ground  for  the  wish  to  make  your  acquaintance." 

Now,  Messer  Guido,  that  had  stood  quietly  by, 
37 


THE    GOD    OF   LOVE 

made  speed  to  speak  to  Dante.  "  It  is  very  true," 
he  declared.  "I  have  heard  your  praises."  And 
as  he  spoke  the  face  of  Dante  flushed  with  pleasure, 
for  it  was  no  small  honor  to  be  sought  in  friendship 
by  Messer  Guido.  So  he  answered  him  very 
gladly,  yet  with  a  certain  calmness  that  was  his 
character  in  all  things. 

"Messer  Guido,"  he  said,  "I  am  honored  to 
the  top  of  my  longing,  though,  indeed,  I  have  no 
greater  claim  to  your  lavor  than  this:  that  I  know 
by  root  of  heart  every  rhyme  that  you  have  written 
and  given." 

At  this  Messer  Guido  laughed  joyously. 
"Heaven,  friend,"  he  cried,  "what  better  recom- 
mendation could  a  man  have  to  one  that  writes 
verses  ?" 

"Is  there  one  in  Florence,"  Dante  asked,  "that 
could  not  say  as  much  ?"  Then,  as  if  to  break 
away  from  bandying  of  compliments,  he  asked: 
"But  what  were  the  rumors  you  spoke  of?" 

"Why,"  replied  Guido,  looking  at  him  in  some 
wonder,  "here  was  the  daintest  festal  ever  devised: 
delicate  youths  and  exquisite  maidens  footing  it  to 
pipe  and  cymbal  as  blithely  as  if  they  would  never 
grow  old." 

Dante  shook  his  head  a  little.  "I  did  not  mark 
them." 

As  for  me,  I  marvelled,  and  I  cried,  "A  beatific 
disposition  that  can  sleep  in  such  a  din." 
38 


A    CHILD   AND   A   CHILD 

But  Dante  reproved  me  with  that  gravity  he 
always  showed  when  there  was  any  matter  of 
truth  to  be  considered.  "  I  did  not  sleep,"  he 
asserted.  "I  read." 

"What,  in  Heaven's  name,"  asked  Guido,  "did 
you  read,  that  could  shut  your  ears  to  such  a  din  ?" 

Dante  lifted  up  toward  him  the  manuscript  he 
had  newly  bought.  "The  love-tale  of  Knight 
Lancelot  and  Queen  Guinevere.  The  fellow  that 
wrote  it  discourses  nothing  but  marvels." 

Now  I  was  curious,  for  I  love  all  strange  tales, 
and  I  questioned  him.  "What  marvels?" 

Dante  answered  me  smiling,  and  his  face  was 
always  very  sweet  when  he  smiled.  "Why,  the 
rogue  will  have  it  that  when  such  a  cavalier  as 
Lancelot  tumbles  into  love  he  becomes  a  very 
ecstatic,  and  sees  the  world  as  it  never  is,  was,  or 
shall  be.  The  sun  is  no  more  than  his  lady's 
looking-glass,  and  the  moon  and  stars  her  candles 
to  light  her  to  bed.  You  are  a  lover,  Messer 
Guido.  Do  you  think  thus  of  your  lady  ?" 

Messer  Guido  answered  emphatically,  for  he 
was  indeed  deep  in  love  with  a  lady  well  worth  the 
loving.  "Very  surely  and  so  will  you  when  the 
fever  wrings  you." 

Dante  turned  to  me,  still  with  that  same  lumin- 
ous smile  on  his  face.  "And  you,  Lappo  ?" 

Now,  it  was  then  and  ever  my  creed  that  it  is 
a  man's  best  business  to  be  in  love  as  much  and 
39 


THE    GOD   OF   LOVE 

as  often  as  he  can,  and  I  answered  him  according 
to  my  fancy.  "I  should  scorn  myself  if  I  did  not 
overtop  every  conceited  fancy  that  lover  has  ever 
sighed  or  sung  for  his  lady." 

Dante  still  smiled,  but  there  was  now  a  little 
scorn  in  his  smile  that  nettled  me.  "  It  is  strange," 
he  said.  And  then  made  a  feint  of  returning  to  his 
book,  saying,  "Well,  I  will  read  in  my  book  again 
if  you  are  no  wiser." 

But  Guido  laid  his  hand  upon  the  pages  and 
protested.  "Plague  on  your  reading,  brother;  you 
read  too  much.  You  are  young  to  be  so  studious 
of  pothooks  and  hangers.  The  Book  of  Life  is 
a  brave  book  for  a  youth  to  read  in." 

And  here  I  put  in  my  word.  "  And  the  two  best 
chapters,  by  your  leave,  are  those  that  treat  of 
Squire  Bacchus  and  Dame  Venus." 

"You  are  a  pretty  ribald,"  Dante  said  to  me, 
mockingly.  "Leave  me  to  my  ease.  Let  our  star 
wheel  where  it  pleases;  I  cannot  guide  the  chariot 
of  the  sun.  Let  me  bask  in  its  bounty,  warm  my 
hands  at  it,  eat  the  fruit  it  ripens,  and  drink  the 
wine  it  kindles.  I  am  content.  Florence  is  the 
fairest  city  in  the  world.  I  shall  be  happy  to  grow 
old  in  Florence,  studiously,  peacefully,  pleasantly, 
dreaming  my  dreams." 

Guido  protested  against  his  placidity.  "What 
a  slugabed  spirit!  Rings  there  no  alarum  in  your 
blood  ?" 

40 


A   CHILD   AND   A   CHILD 

Dante  said  nothing,  but  looked  at  me,  and  I 
supported  Guide's  theme.  "There  are  ladies  in 
Florence  as  lovely  as  the  city's  lilies.  I  would 
rather  lie  in  white  arms  than  dream  dreams." 

Dante  shook  his  head,  and  he  fluttered  the  pages 
of  his  book  as  he  answered  us  slowly:  "Restless, 
feverish  Titans,  forever  challenging  the  great  gods 
of  Love  and  War.  Give  me  the  dappled  shade  of 
a  green  garden,  the  sable  shadows  quivering  on  a 
ground  of  gold,  a  book  of  verse  by  me  to  play 
with  when  I  would  be  busy,  and  a  swarm  of  sweet 
rhythms  like  colored  butterflies  floating  about  my 
drowsy  senses.  What  to  me  are  wars  and  rumors 
of  wars  in  that  delicious  ease  ?  What  to  me  are 
the  white  breasts  of  the  fair  Florentines  ?" 

Guido  and  I  looked  at  each  other  in  wonder, 
and  then  Guido  asked  again,  "Tell  me,  comrade, 
have  you  ever  been  in  love  ?" 

Now,  when  Guido  asked  him  that  question,  I 
expected  to  hear  from  Dante  a  mocking  answer, 
but  instead,  to  my  surprise,  he  sat  quite  still  for 
a  little  while,  almost  like  a  man  in  a  trance,  with 
his  hands  clasped  about  his  knees,  and  it  seemed 
to  me  as  if  he  were  seeing,  as  indeed  he  was  seeing, 
things  that  we  who  were  with  him  did  not  see  and 
could  not  see.  After  a  while  he  spoke  in  a  soft 
voice,  and  for  the  most  part  his  words  came  sharp 
and  clear,  like  the  words  of  a  man  that  speaks  in 
a  dream. 

41 


THE   GOD   OF    LOVE 

"Once,  when  I  was  still  a  child,  I  saw  a  child's 
face,  a  girl's  face;  it  lives  in  my  memory  as  the 
face  of  an  angel.  It  was  a  sunny  morning,  a  May 
morning,  such  a  morning  as  this,  one  of  those  days 
that  always  make  one  think  of  roses.  I  had  a 
rose  in  my  hand,  and  I  was  smelling  at  it — and 
then  I  saw  the  child.  She  was  younger  than  I — 
and  I  was  very  young." 

Now,  although  I  am  a  liberal  lover  of  women,  I 
have,  I  thank  Heaven,  such  a  nature  that  any  talk 
of  love  pleases  me  and  interests  me,  and  I  can  listen 
to  any  lover  with  content.  But  this  talk  of  children 
only  tickled  me,  and  I  turned  to  my  comrade 
Guido,  that  was  known  to  be  a  very  devoted  swain 
to  his  lady,  and  that  served  her  in  song  and  honor 
with  all  fidelity,  and  pointed  Dante  out  to  him  now, 
as  if  laughing  at  the  radiant  gaze  on  his  face. 
"Look  at  the  early  lover,  Guido,"  I  said,  and 
laughed;  but  Messer  Guido  would  not  humor  me 
by  laughing  too,  and  he  told  me  later  that  he  never 
found  a  love-tale  a  thing  to  laugh  at. 

Dante  seemed  neither  to  heed  nor  to  be 
vexed  at  my  mirth.  "Laugh  if  you  like,"  he 
said,  good-humored ly,  "but  I  learned  what  love 
might  mean  then,  as  I  peeped  over  the  red  breast 
of  the  rose  at  the  little  maiden.  She  was  younger 
than  I  was;  she  had  hair  like  woven  sunlight, 
and  her  wide  eyes  seemed  to  me  bright  with  a 
better  blue  than  heaven's.  Oh,  if  I  had  all  the 
42 


A    CHILD    AND    A    CHILD 

words  in  the  world  at  my  order,  I  could  not  truly 
tell  you  all  I  thought  then  of  that  little  child." 

Guido  said  very  gravely,  "A  boy  may  have  great 
thoughts."  And  he  said  no  more,  but  looked  stead- 
fastly upon  the  rapt  countenance  of  Dante. 

Now  by  this  time  I  was  all  afire  with  curiosity, 
for  this  strange  talk  stirred  me  to  wonder,  and  I 
entreated  Messer  Dante  very  zealously  to  tell  me 
who  this  child  was.  Dante  went  on  as  if  he  had 
not  heard  my  question,  telling  his  tale  in  a  measured 
voice.  "She  looked  at  me  and  she  looked  at  my 
red  rose,  and  I  felt  suddenly  as  if  that  rose  were 
the  most  precious  gift  in  the  world,  a  gift  for  a 
god,  and  that  I  should  give  it  to  her.  I  held  out 
my  hand  to  her  with  the  rose  in  it,  and  she  took 
the  flower,  and  her  fingers  touched  my  fingers  as 
she  took  it.  They  still  thrill  with  the  memory." 

As  I  have  but  just  recorded,  to  my  shame,  I  took 
all  this  story  of  our  friend's  in  a  spirit  of  mock- 
ery. "O  father  Socrates,"  I  cried,  "listen  to  the 
philosopher!"  And  then,  because  I  was  still 
burning  with  desire  for  more  knowledge  in  this 
strange  business,  I  repeated  my  question.  "Who 
was  she  ?" 

And  this  time  Dante  heeded  me  and  answered 
me.  "I  do  not  know.  I  never  saw  her  again." 

Guido's  amazement  at  this  answer  found  speech. 
"You  never  saw  her  again?"  he  questioned.  "A 
girl  in  Florence?" 

«  43 


THE   GOD   OF    LOVE 

And  indeed  it  was  a  strange  thing  for  our  city, 
where  one  sees  every  one  every  day. 

But  Dante  nodded.  "It  is  strange,  but  so  it  is. 
I  never  saw  her  again.  That  is  nine  years  ago 
now." 

Guide's  eyes  were  filled  with  a  tender  pity. 
Never  before  saw  I  true  lover  so  moved  by  a  pro- 
fession of  true  love.  "Are  you  sure  you  ever 
really  saw  her  ?"  he  questioned,  somewhat  sadly. 
"Are  you  sure  that  you  did  not  dream  this  won- 
der ?" 

Dante  showed  no  anger  at  this  doubt,  though 
indeed  at  other  times  he  was  quick  enough  to  take 
offence  if  he  found  just  cause.  But  I  guessed  then 
what  I  know  since,  that  he  found  this  matter  at 
once  so  simple  and  so  sacred  that  nothing  any  man 
could  say  concerning  it  could  in  any  way  vex  him. 
So  he  answered  very  mildly,  "Sometimes  I  almost 
doubt,  but  the  scent  of  a  red  rose  on  a  May  morn- 
ing always  brings  her  back  to  me." 

Now  I  grieve  to  record  it,  but  the  silly  spirit  of 
mockery  within  me  had  so  far  infected  my  wits 
that  I  cried  out  in  pretended  astonishment,  "O 
marvellous  fancy  that  can  so  ennoble  a  neighbor's 
brat!"  The  which  was  very  false  and  foolish  of  me, 
for  I  know  well  enough  now,  and  knew  very  well 
then,  that  love,  while  it  lasts,  can  ennoble  any  child, 
maid,  or  matron.  Lord,  the  numbers  of  girls  I 
have  likened  to  Diana  that  were  no  such  matter, 


A   CHILD   AND   A   CHILD 

and  the  plump  maids  I  have  appraised  as  Venus, 
though,  indeed,  they  would  have  shown  something 
clumsy  if  one  had  caught  them  rising  from  the  sea! 
But,  as  I  say,  Dante  never  heeded  my  jeers,  and 
sat  there  very  quiet  and  silent,  very  much  as  if  he 
had  forgotten  our  existence,  and  was  thinking  only 
of  that  gracious  child  he  spoke  of.  And  I,  my 
laughter  being  somewhat  abashed  by  his  gravity, 
and  the  edge  of  my  jest  being  blunted  by  his  indif- 
ference, as  well  as  by  the  reproof  on  Guide's  face, 
stood  there  awkwardly,  not  knowing  whether  to 
abide  with  him  or  leave  him,  when  there  came,  to 
break  my  embarrassment,  the  presence  of  a  mighty 
fair  lady. 


Ill 

VITTORIA 

THE  lady  that  now  came  toward  us  over  the 
little  bridge  was  one  whose  acquaintance  I 
could  claim,  and  whose  beauty  I  admired  very 
greatly.  Madonna  Vittoria  Crescimbeni  was  a 
very  fair  lady  that  was  generous  of  her  favors  to 
those  that  were  wealthy,  and  even  to  those  that 
were  not,  if  they  happened  to  take  her  fancy,  as 
indeed  I  am  pleased  to  recall.  She  lived  on  the 
other  side  of  Arno,  in  a  gracious  dwelling  that  had 
been  built  for  her  by  a  great  lord  that  had  given 
her  everything,  except  his  name,  while  he  lived, 
and  had  died  and  left  her  a  fortune.  For  all  that, 
she  was  a  light  child;  she  carried  herself  with  much 
show  of  discretion,  and  was  only  to  be  come  at 
warily,  as  it  were,  and  with  circumspection;  and 
because  of  her  abundance  she  was  at  no  man's 
beck  and  call,  and  could  choose  and  refuse  as  it 
liked  her.  She  was  made  something  full  of  figure, 
with  a  face  like  an  ancient  statue,  which  was  the 
less  to  be  wondered  at  because  her  mother  was  a 
Greek;  but  her  hair,  of  which  she  had  a  mighty 
46 


VITTORIA 

quantity,  was  of  that  tawny  red  tincture  that  is 
familiar  to  those  that  woo  Venetian  women.  As 
for  her  mouth,  it  was  like  flame,  and  her  eyes  were 
flames  too,  though  of  another  hue,  having  a  green- 
ish light  in  them  that  could  delight  or  frighten  as 
she  pleased.  She  went  her  ways  in  great  state, 
having  two  small  knavish  blackamoor  pages  in 
gold  tissue  at  her  heels,  and  a  little  ways  off"  she  was 
followed  by  a  brace  of  well-armed  serving-rascals. 

For  my  own  part,  I  was  mightily  pleased  to  see  her, 
for  though  she  was,  in  the  native  ways  of  affairs, 
somewhat  out  of  my  star,  still,  as  I  said,  she  was 
to  show  later  that  she  had  an  eye  for  a  pretty  fellow 
and  owned  a  spirit  above  mere  dross.  I  say  no 
more.  She  seemed  content  enough  to  see  me,  but 
still  more  content  to  see  Messer  Guido.  This  was 
an  experience  in  the  ways  of  ladies  with  which 
those  that  walked  with  Messer  Guido  were  familiar. 
Every  woman  that  saw  him  admired  him  highly. 
So  Vittoria  smiled  a  little  on  me  and  a  great  deal 
on  Messer  Guido;  and  as  for  Dante,  she  glanced 
at  him  slightly  and  gave  him  little  heed,  for  his 
habit  was  modest  and  his  looks  were  not  of  a  kind 
at  once  to  tickle  the  fancy  of  such  as  she.  Yet 
Dante  looked  at  her  curiously,  though  without 
ostentation,  as  one  whose  way  it  is  instinctively  to 
observe  all  men  and  all  women  with  an  exceeding 
keenness  and  clearness  of  vision. 

Messer  Guido  greeted  Madonna  Vittoria  very 
47 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

courteously,  as  was  ever  his  way  with  women. 
Were  they  fair  or  plain-favored,  chaste  or  gay,  he 
was  ever  their  very  gentle  servant.  And  by  this 
time  Vittoria,  being  very  close  to  us,  paused  and 
gave  us  the  greeting  of  the  day;  and  her  pages 
came  to  a  halt  behind  her,  and  her  men-at-arms 
stood  at  ease  a  little  space  away. 

The  beautiful  lady  looked  at  us  with  a  kind  of 
wonder  and  a  kind  of  mockery  in  her  dark  eyes. 
And  when  she  spoke  to  us  her  voice  was  marvellous- 
ly soft  with  a  rich  softness  that  made  me,  being 
then  of  a  very  sensual  disposition,  think  instantly 
of  old  wine  and  ripe  fruit,  and  darkened  alcoves, 
and  the  wayward  complaining  of  lutes.  Indeed, 
wherever  Monna  Vittoria  went  she  seemed  to  carry 
with  her  an  atmosphere  of  subtle  seclusion,  of  a 
cloistered  lusciousness,  of  dim,  green,  guarded  gar- 
dens, where  the  sighs  of  love's  novices  are  stifled 
by  the  drip  of  stealthy  fountains  and  the  babble  of 
fantastic  birds.  I  suppose  it  was  no  more  than 
my  fancy,  or  a  trick  of  my  memory  confusing  later 
things  with  earlier,  that  makes  me  now,  as  I  write, 
seem  to  recall  what  seemed  like  a  smile  on  the  face 
of  the  pagan  effigy  of  Love  as  Madonna  Vittoria 
swam  into  her  company,  as  if  the  Greekish  image 
recognized  in  the  woman  a  creature  of  the  early 
days  when  cunning  fingers  fashioned  him.  For, 
indeed,  Vittoria  was  not  modern  in  the  sense  that 
we  Florentines  are  modern.  She  derived  from  a 
48 


VITTORIA 

world  long  dead  and  buried.  Heavens,  how  Messer 
Alcibiades  would  have  admired  her! 

"Good-morrow,  gentle  gentles,"  she  began,  in 
that  caressing  voice,  "why  are  you  absent  from 
the  sacrifice  ?" 

Guido  looked  for  the  instant  perplexed  by  the 
woman's  words,  and  he  moved  a  little  nearer  to 
her.  As  for  Dante,  he  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
us  all,  even  to  have  forgotten  his  book,  and  though 
he  had  risen  when  Monna  Vittoria  approached,  he 
had  by  this  time  sunk  onto  the  stone  seat  again, 
and  seemed  drowned  in  a  brown  study. 

"What  sacrifice,  lady?"  Guido  asked  of  Vittoria; 
and  whenever  Guido  spoke  to  a  woman,  he  spoke 
as  if  all  the  pleasures  and  destinies  of  the  world 
depended  upon  that  one  woman's  interest  and  ca- 
price. 

Madonna  Vittoria  smiled,  self-satisfied,  as  all 
women  smiled  when  Guido  so  addressed  them. 
"Why,  the  sacrifice  of  the  pearl  to  the  pig,"  she 
answered;  and  she  still  smiled  as  she  spoke,  but 
there  was  a  kind  of  anger  in  her  eyes.  "The  sacri- 
fice of  a  clean  child  to  a  coarse  churl,  the  sacrifice 
of  Folco  Portinari's  little  Beatrice  to  my  big  Simone, 
that  I  do  not  choose  to  lose." 

Here  I  broke  in,  laughing,  for  I  took  the  drift 

of  her  meaning,  and  was  wishful  to  prove  myself 

alert.     "Most   allegorical    lady,"    I    protested,    "I 

take  you  very  clearly  when  you  explain  your  own 

49 


THE   GOD    OF    LOVE 

fable."     And  I  rubbed  my  hands,  instantly  pleased 
with  myself  and  my  nimbleness. 

But  Messer  Guido  still  looked  thoughtful.  "If 
the  ladies  of  Florence,"  he  said,  slowly,  "make 
Madonna  Beatrice  their  May-queen,  that  dainty 
deed  does  not  deliver  her  to  Simone  of  the  Bardi." 

Madonna  Vittoria  turned  upon  him  with  a 
sharpness  seldom  seen  on  a  woman's  face  when 
it  bent  toward  Messer  Guido  of  the  Cavalcanti. 
Her  smooth  forehead  wrinkled  with  an  unfamiliar 
frown;  her  full  lips  seemed  to  tighten  and  narrow 
to  a  red  thread;  her  eyes  were  as  a  cat's  eyes  are 
when  the  cat  is  very,  very  angry. 

"Who  goes  by  her  side,"  she  asked,  sourly,  "as 
she  goes  through  the  city  ?"  And  she  answered 
her  own  question  with  a  name.  "Simone  del 
Bardi."  She  went  on:  "Who  is  her  father's  faith- 
ful friend  ?  Simone  dei  Bardi."  She  glanced  from 
one  to  the  other  of  us — Messer  Guido  and  I,  I 
mean,  for  Dante  took  no  heed  of  her  and  she 
seemed  to  take  no  heed  of  him.  "I  will  tell  you," 
she  said,  fiercely,  "the  trap  is  baited  for  the  prey, 
and,  as  things  go,  it  seems  as  if  I  were  like  to  lose 
my  emerald,  that  I  can  spare  ill,  as  well  as  a  hus- 
band, that  I  could  spare  very  readily  were  it  not 
that  I  had  a  mind  to  marry  him." 

Now  at  this  there  was  a  pause,  and  in  a    little 
while  I  turned  to  Dante,    thinking    that    it    was 
high  time  he  took  a  share  in  our  parley, 
50 


VITTORIA 

"Is  not,"  I  said,  "Monna  Vittoria  much  to  be 
pitied?" 

Being  thus  questioned,  Dante  seemed  to  shake 
himself  free  from  his  lethargy,  or  his  disdain,  or 
whatever  you  may  call  it,  and  he  answered  very  in- 
differently, as  one  that  speaks  of  another  that  is  not 
present,  "I  do  not  know  the  cause  of  her  sorrow." 

Monna  Vittoria  turned  to  him  now  very  directly 
and  faced  him,  and  there  was  a  kind  of  challenge 
in  her  carriage. 

"Messer  Dante,"  she  said,  "if  you  know  nothing 
of  me,  I  know  something  of  you,  for  Messer  Bru- 
netto,  your  philosopher,  is  one  of  my  very  good 
friends.  I  had  this  trinket  of  him  a  week  ago." 
And  as  she  spoke  she  fingered  an  enamelled  and 
jewelled  pendant  against  her  neck  that  must  have 
cost  the  scholar  a  merry  penny.  "Well,  Messer 
Dante,  you  who  are  young  and  of  high  spirit, 
would  you  have  a  queen  of  beauty  married  to  a 
king  of  beasts  ?" 

Dante  shrugged  his  shoulders  a  little,  feigning 
no  interest  in  the  handsome  creature  that  ad- 
dressed him.  "The  alliance  sounds  unnatural,"  he 
answered,  carelessly,  and  looked  as  if  he  would  be 
glad  that  the  matter  should  end. 

But  Vittoria  would  not  have  it  so.  "Well,  now," 
she  said,  "when  all  Florence  is  luting  and  fluting 
for  the  queen  of  beauty,  the  king  of  beasts  walks 
warden  by  her  side." 

51 


THE   GOD   OF    LOVE 

Still  Dante  showed  no  interest.  "Who  is  this 
queen  of  beauty  ?"  he  asked,  listlessly.  And  when 
Guido  made  answer  that  she  was  Folco  Portinari's 
daughter  Beatrice,  he  only  shook  his  head  a  little 
and  declared  that  he  did  not  know  her. 

''She  is  new  to  Florence,"  I  explained. 

And  Vittoria  went  on.  "I  will  give  her  this 
credit,  that  she  is  a  comely  piece.  Let  us  go  and 
see  the  girl  in  her  triumph."  She  addressed  her- 
self directly  to  Guido,  but  she  had  an  after-glance 
for  me  as  well. 

Guido  turned  toward  his  new-made  friend. 
"Will  you  come  with  us,  Messer  Dante  ?"  he  asked. 

But  Dante  denied  him.  "Not  I,  by  your  leave," 
he  replied.  "I  find  folly  enough  here  in  my  book 
without  tramping  the  highways  to  face  it  in  its 
pageant." 

Now  I  felt  a  little  vexed  at  his  churlishness,  for 
Madonna  Vittoria  was  a  lovely  lady,  and  very 
pleasant  company,  and  one  worth  obliging.  So  I 
spoke  to  the  others,  saying,  "Well,  well,  let  us  not 
starve  because  Dante  has  no  appetite."  And  there- 
with I  caught  a  hand  of  Guido  and  a  hand  of  Vit- 
toria, and  made  to  lead  them  from  the  place.  And 
they  both  responded  well  enough  to  my  summons. 

But   Monna  Vittoria   checked   me   a   little   and 
paused,    and   spoke   again   to   Dante.     "Farewell, 
Messer  Dante,"  she  said,  sweetly.     "Will  you  come 
visit  me  one  of  these  days  ?" 
52 


VITTORIA 

But  Dante,  who  had  poked  that  hooked  nose  of 
his  now  in  his  book  again,  shook  his  head  and  made 
her  no  very  civil  answer.  "Madonna,"  he  said,  "I 
have  little  money  and  less  lust.  God  be  with  you." 

So,  lapped  in  that  mood,  we  left  him,  and  went 
our  ways  toward  the  Signory,  and  our  Dante  was 
soon  out  of  sight,  and,  if  truth  be  told,  out  of  mind. 


IV 

THE    WORDS    OF   THE    IMAGE 

NOW  I  proceed  to  tell  under  all  caution  what 
happened  to  our  Dante,  sitting  there  alone  in 
the  shady  angle  of  that  sunny  place,  after  we  had 
left  him  to  go  to  the  Signory.  For,  indeed,  I  did 
not  see  it,  although  I  heard  it  from  his  lips,  that 
had  the  gift,  even  then,  to  make  the  strangest  things 
seem  as  real  as,  say,  the  door  of  a  house.  The  tale 
was  so  told,  in  such  twists  of  thought  and  turns  of 
phrase,  that  it  might,  if  you  chose,  be  taken  as  an 
allegory  or  the  vision  of  a  dream;  but,  for  my  own 
part,  I  prefer  to  believe  that  it  came  about  just  as 
I  shall  set  it  down,  for  the  world  is  merrier  for  a 
spice  of  the  marvellous  in  its  composition,  and,  for 
myself,  I  could  believe  anything  of  that  same 
painted  image. 

It  seems,  then,  that  when  Dante  was  left  alone 
he  turned  to  his  book  again,  and  set  himelf  very 
resolutely  to  reading  of  the  loves  of  Lancelot  and 
Guinevere,  in  the  hope,  most  like,  to  still  that  stir- 
ring of  the  spirit  occasioned  by  our  talk.  And 
when  the  fall  of  our  footsteps  and  the  babble  of  our 
54 


THE    WORDS   OF   THE    IMAGE 

voices  could  be  heard  no  more,  he  confessed  that 
at  first  he  felt  grateful  for  the  silence  and  the  peace. 
But  of  a  sudden  it  appeared  to  him  that  the  silence 
was  greater  than  there  was  any  need  or  reason  for 
it  to  be,  that  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  all  Florence 
held  its  breath  in  the  suspense  of  a  great  hush  which 
lapped  the  world  in  its  embrace — such  a  hush  as 
might  perchance  occur  before  the  coming  of  Doom. 
Then,  after  an  interval  that  seemed  too  age-long 
to  be  endured,  out  of  the  very  core  of  the  silence 
Dante  heard  a  voice  calling  to  him  that  he  had 
never  heard  before,  and  that  spoke  to  him  with 
such  a  sweet  imperiousness  that  he  was  as  physi- 
cally and  spiritually  bound  to  obey  and  attend  as 
ever  Moses  was  on  the  holy  hill.  And  the  com- 
manding voice  cried  to  him,  "Dante,  behold  a 
deity  stronger  than  thou,  who  comes  to  govern 
thee." 

Then  it  seemed  to  Dante  that  at  the  sound  of  that 
voice  his  consciousness  returned  to  him,  and,  looking 
up  from  his  book,  he  called  aloud,  "Who  speaks  to 
me  ?"  And  as  he  spoke  he  saw,  or  thought  he  saw 
— but  I  give  it  to  you  as  he  gave  it  to  me — to  his 
amazement,  how  the  painted  image  of  the  beautiful 
youth  that  stood  above  the  fountain  seemed  slowly 
to  quicken  into  being,  and  how  all  the  gaudy  colors 
and  gilding  of  the  figure  seemed  to  soften  to  the 
exquisite  and  tender  hues  of  a  life  that  was  more 
marvellous  than  life.  The  hair  of  the  youth  was 
55 


THE   GOD   OF    LOVE 

radiantly  sunny,  his  cheeks  flamed  and  paled  with 
a  divine  white  and  red,  his  perfect  limbs  and  per- 
fect body  seemed  moulded  with  such  exquisite 
rounded  flesh  as  the  immortal  gods  assumed  long 
ago  when  they  deigned  to  descend  from  Olympus 
or  appear  in  Cytherea,  and  speak  to  men  and  love 
them.  And  the  pagan  boy  that  stood  above  the 
plashing  fountain  lifted  a  hand  toward  Dante  and 
parted  his  lips  and  spoke,  and  this  was  what  he 
said:  "The  God  Love  speaks  to  you,  Dante,  and 
to  none  but  you.  Lift  up  your  heart,  for  soon  your 
happiness  shall  be  made  manifest  unto  you." 

At  this  Dante,  though,  as  he  told  me  thereafter, 
he  felt  no  fear,  was  full  of  a  great  astonishment, 
and  he  strove  to  speak  and  could  not  for  an  instant, 
and  at  last  he  cried  out,  "Must  I  believe  you?" 
For  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  image  uttered  the 
very  voice  of  truth,  but  that  he,  listening,  rebelled 
against  it. 

Then  the  beautiful,  breathing  boy,  that  had  been 
the  beautiful,  silent  image,  stretched  out  a  hand 
to  him  in  command,  and  said,  "You  that  denied 
me  must  now  believe  me,  for  henceforth  I  shall 
govern  your  soul." 

At  these  words  Dante  crossed  himself,  for  all  this 
seemed  strange  work  for  commonplace  Florence  in 
full  day,  and  he  tried  to  repeat  a  prayer,  but  won- 
derfully could  remember  none,  and  only  his  ears 
buzzed  with  the  words  of  all  the  love-songs  he  had 
56 


THE   WORDS   OF   THE   IMAGE 

ever  heard,  and  he  entreated,  "Leave  me  in  peace." 
And  as  he  spoke  he  stretched  out  his  hands  in 
supplication  to  the  quickened  image. 

Now  it  is  to  be  said  that  it  seemed  to  Dante  as  if 
a  kind  of  pale  flame  appeared  to  blaze  all  about  the 
living  image,  and  to  spread  from  him  in  fine  and 
delicate  rays  till  it  seemed  to  play  on  Dante's  body 
and  burn  through  the  armor  of  the  flesh  and  lurk 
about  his  naked  heart.  And  the  agony  of  that 
burning  was  beyond  words,  yet  there  was  a  kind 
of  joy  in  it  that  was  beyond  thought. 

And  the  God  that  was  Love  cried  out  again: 
"You  pray  in  vain  for  peace  who  shall  ever  be 
peaceless  from  this  time  forth.  For  the  unavoid- 
able hour  is  at  hand  when  you  shall  know  my 
power.  Farewell  awhile."  As  the  figure  spoke 
those  last  words  it  seemed  slowly  to  stiffen  into 
stone  again,  and  the  beautiful,  vital  coloring  faded 
away,  and  the  pale,  leaping  flames  vanished,  and 
Dante  found  himself  sitting  and  staring  at  the 
painted  image  above  the  lisping  water  that  he  had 
looked  at  unmoved  a  thousand  times,  as  he  passed 
it  going  to  and  fro  on  his  way  through  the  city. 

Dante  rubbed  his  forehead  and  wondered.  "I 
have  been  dreaming,"  he  murmured,  "and  the  love- 
tale  in  the  book  colored  my  thoughts." 

Now,  though  all  this  vision,  or  whatever  you 
may  please  to  call  it,  seemed  brief  enough,  it  took 
longer  than  the  telling,  for  Messer  Dante  told  me 
57 


THE    GOD    OF    LOVE 

that  the  next  thing  he  knew  was  that  he  heard  my 
voice  calling  to  him.  Wherefore,  the  most  will  prob- 
ably say  that  Messer  Dante  had  fallen  asleep  in  the 
heat  of  the  day  and  dreamed  a  dream,  but  I  do  not 
think  so.  Now,  Guido  and  I  and  Monna  Vittoria 
had  gone  on  our  ways  to  the  Signory,  thinking  to 
witness  the  crowning  of  the  lady  Beatrice  of  the 
Portinari,  but  we  had  not  travelled  very  far  when 
we  heard  the  noise  of  many  people  mixed  with  the 
sound  of  music,  and  we  knew  that  the  procession 
was  coming  our  way  and  that  the  ceremony  at  the 
Signory  was  over  and  done  with.  Then  it  seemed 
a  shame  to  me  that  my  friend  should  lose  all  the 
pleasure,  and  I  said  I  would  go  back  for  him,  and 
Messer  Guido  came  with  me  because  Monna  Vit- 
toria had  found  other  friends  and  stayed  in  speech 
with  them.  And  when  Guido  and  I  came  back  to 
the  place  where  we  had  left  Dante,  I  found  him, 
as  I  say,  seated  upon  the  stone  seat.  His  closed 
book  lay  by  his  side,  and  he  was  staring  straight 
before  him,  as  a  man  that  is  newly  awakened  from 
a  trance.  But  I,  taking  little  notice  of  his  state  at 
the  moment,  ran  toward  him  and  clapped  him  on 
the  shoulder,  calling  to  him:  "They  are  moving 
this  way!"  I  cried.  "Come  and  see!" 

But  Dante  did  not  seem  to  hear  me,  and  sat 

gazing  at  that  painted  image  that  was  such  an  old 

friend  of  mine  and  his,  as  if  he  had  never  seen  it 

before.     But  presently,  partly  by  persuasion,  and 

58 


THE   WORDS   OF    THE    IMAGE 

partly  by  pushing  and  urging,  we  got  him  to  turn 
from  the  statue  and  accompany  us  a  little  ways  till 
we  came  to  a  stand  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
Palace  of  the  Portinari,  toward  which  the  procession 
of  the  May-day  was  making  its  way. 

The  open  space  of  the  Piazza  of  the  Santa  Felicita 
was  now  pretty  well  filled  with  the  curious  and  the 
seekers  for  amusement,  and  all  the  air  was  full  of 
sweet  noises,  and  all  the  smiling  faces  shone  in  the 
warm  sunlight.  And  Guido  and  I,  piloting  our 
Dante,  pushed  our  way  to  the  inner  circle  of  the 
loiterers,  and  paused  there,  waiting  for  the  coming 
of  the  merrymakers.  And  even  as  we  paused  the 
folk  that  we  expected  came  upon  us.  They  were 
a  gallant  company  of  youths  and  maidens,  dressed 
all  in  their  best  and  brightest,  and  there  were  ex- 
cellent musicians  with  them  that  made  the  most 
noble  of  cheerful  music,  and  the  comely  girls  scat- 
tered flowers  on  the  cobbles,  and  the  comely  youths 
laughed  and  shouted,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  throng 
a  dozen  of  the  strongest  lads  were  tugging  at  a 
chariot  that  carried  a  gilded  throne,  and  on  that 
throne  was  seated  Madonna  Beatrice  of  the  Porti- 
nari. She  was  dressed  in  a  robe  of  crimson  silk, 
and  she  carried  red  roses  in  her  hand,  and  I  think 
that  all  who  looked  upon  her  held  her  as  the  loveliest 
maid  in -all  Florence.  I  know  that,  for  my  part,  I 
frankly  admitted  to  myself  that  none  of  the  girls 
that  I  was  in  love  with  at  that  time  could  hold  a 
5  59 


THE   GOD    OF   LOVE 

candle  to  her.  Yet  I  knew  for  my  sins  that  I 
could  never  be  in  love  with  Madonna  Beatrice  of 
the  Portinari.  Standing  by  her  side  was  a  big, 
thick-set,  fierce-looking  man,  with  a  shag  of  black 
hair  and  a  black  beard  like  a  spade,  whom  I  knew 
well  enough  and  whom  all  there  knew  well  enough 
to  be  Messer  Simone  dei  Bardi,  the  man  of  whom 
Guido  and  I  had  talked  that  morning.  There  was 
a  great  crowd  behind  the  chariot,  Reds  and  many 
Yellows,  seemingly  at  peace  that  day,  friends  of 
Guido,  and  followers  of  Simone,  and  revellers  of 
many  kinds  and  townsfolk  of  many  classes.  I 
could  see  that  Monna  Vittoria  was  in  the  thick  of 
the  crowd  that  followed  the  Car  of  Triumph,  and 
presently  she  made  her  way  beneath  the  shelter 
of  the  arcade,  and  stood  there  hard  by  one  of  the 
pillars,  watching  the  lady  Beatrice  on  her  throne 
and  Simone  dei  Bardi  keeping  so  close  beside  her. 
And  Simone,  as  I  believe,  had  no  knowledge  of  Vit- 
toria's  presence. 

Now,  when  that  brave  company  came  into  the 
place  where  we  stood,  Dante,  that  had  stood  by 
our  sides  listlessly  enough,  turned  away  from  us 
as  suddenly  and  sharply  as  if  he  had  received  an 
order.  So  he  turned,  and,  turning,  he  saw  in  full 
view  the  face  of  the  lady  Beatrice  as  she  sat  on 
her  car  of  triumph;  and,  at  the  sight  of  her,  he  gave 
a  great  cry,  and  then  stood  silent  and  stiff  as  if 
spellbound. 

60 


THE   WORDS   OF   THE   IMAGE 

Guido,  delighted  by  the  girl's  beauty,  cried  to 
him,  not  looking  at  him,  "Is  she  not  fair?" 

But  I  saw  what  strange  case  our  Dante  was  in, 
and  pulled  at  Guido's  sleeve  and  jerked  his  atten- 
tion to  my  friend,  saying,  "Our  Dante  stands  at 
gaze  as  if  he  were  sun-dazzled." 

Guido  turned  to  Messer  Dante  and  saw  the  rapt- 
ure in  his  face,  and,  seeing,  questioned  him.  "Is 
she  not  fair  ?"  he  asked,  and  his  glance  travelled 
again  to  where  the  May-queen  sat. 

And  Dante  answered  him,  speaking  very  slowly, 
as  a  man  might  speak  in  some  sweet  sleep  when 
he  dreamed  a  dear  dream,  "She  is  the  loveliest 
woman  in  the  world."  He  paused  for  a  moment, 
and  then  added,  in  a  lower  tone,  "She  is  the  child 
I  worshipped." 

Now,  I  could  plainly  read  amazement  and  doubt 
on  Messer  Guido's  face  when  he  heard  Dante  speak 
thus  strangely,  and  he  caught  at  his  arm  and 
shook  it  a  little  gently,  as  one  would  do  that  wishes 
to  wake  a  sleeping  man.  "You  are  dreaming,  for 
sure,"  he  said. 

But  Dante  only  answered  him  very  quietly,  still 
keeping  his  rapturous  face  fixed  on  the  girl  as  she 
and  her  company  came  nearer.  "She  is  the  lady 
of  my  dreams." 

Now  I,  that  was  glancing  in  much  bewilderment 
from  Dante,  where  he  stood  at  gaze  so  radiant,  to 
the  fair  girl  on  her  gilded  car,  saw,  or  thought  I 
61 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

saw,  all  of  a  sudden,  a  look  in  the  girl's  eyes  that 
betokened  more  knowledge  of  Dante  than  merely 
the  knowledge  that  a  man  stood  in  the  roadway 
and  stared  at  her  beauty.  So  I  whispered  to  Guido 
in  his  ear,  "See,  she  seems  to  note  him,  and,  as  I 
think,  with  recognition." 

Now,  even  as  I  said  this,  the  little  company  that 
carried  the  Queen  of  Beauty  came  to  a  halt  some 
yards  from  the  gate  of  the  gray  palace,  and  Messer 
Simone  dei  Bardi,  quitting  the  side  of  her  chariot, 
advanced  toward  the  Palace  of  the  Portinari  to 
give  the  formal  summons  that  the  Queen  of  May 
demanded  admittance,  all  of  which  was  part  and 
parcel  of  the  ceremonial  of  the  pretty  sport.  At 
the  same  instant  Dante,  quitting  Guide's  side, 
advanced  a  little  nearer  to  the  girl,  who  did  not 
descend  from  her  chair,  but  sat  still  in  her  chariot 
as  if  waiting  for  his  coming,  and  the  little  crowd 
of  juvenals  about  her  fluttered  aside  before  his 
resolute  advance,  and  I  thought  even  then  how 
strong  his  young  face  looked,  and  how  purposeful, 
for  all  his  youth,  that  grim  nose  of  his  and  the 
steady  eyes  above  it,  in  contrast  with  the  pink-and- 
white  prettiness  of  the  many  slim  lads  that  were 
the  Queen  of  Beauty's  satellites. 

And  Dante  raised  his  voice  and  called  to  the  girl 
as  a  friend  calls  to  a  friend:  "Give  me  a  rose  for 
my  rose,  madonna!  Give  me  a  rose  for  my  rose!" 

Now  the  girl,  as  she  sat,  had  in  her  lap  a  great 
62 


THE   WORDS   OF   THE   IMAGE 

quantity  of  roses  exceedingly  red  and  large,  and 
she  took  up  one  of  these  in  answer  to  the  call  and 
cast  it  through  the  air  to  Dante,  who  caught  it  as 
it  fell,  and,  catching  it,  lifted  it  to  his  lips  with 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  girl.  Then,  whether  because 
of  his  action  or  the  eagerness  of  his  gaze  above  the 
crimson  petals  I  know  not,  but  Madonna  Beatrice 
flushed  a  little,  and  she  gathered  the  rest  of  her 
roses  into  her  arms  and  rose  from  her  chair,  and 
descended  from  her  chariot  and  mounted  the  steps 
of  the  great  house,  whose  doors  had  now  opened  to 
Simone's  summons.  Messer  Folco  of  the  Porti- 
nari  stood  smiling  on  his  threshold,  but  Messer 
Simone,  by  his  side,  was  not  smiling,  for  he  had  seen 
that  pretty  business  of  the  given  rose,  and  I  could 
note  that  its  prettiness  pleased  him  little.  I  think 
he  would  have  stepped  down  then  and  there  and 
eased  his  spleen,  but  Messer  Folco,  as  his  way  was 
ever,  wished  to  improve  the  occasion  by  making 
a  speech. 

"Friends  and  neighbors,"  he  began,  in  his  ample, 
affable  voice,  "Florentines  all,  in  my  daughter's 
name,  and  for  my  own  sake,  I  thank  you."  Thereat 
there  came  a  little  cheer  from  the  crowd,  and  then 
Folco  turned  toward  his  daughter,  plainly  very 
proud  of  her,  but  still  flagrantly  paternal  and 
pompous. 

"Come,  child,"  he  said,  solemnly.  "Come,  you 
have  been  queen  for  a  day,  but  your  reign  is  over, 
63 


THE   GOD    OF   LOVE 

and  you  are  no  more  now  than  honest  goodman 
Folco's  daughter.  Get  you  within."  Then  Ma- 
donna Beatrice  she  paused  for  a  moment  with  two 
of  her  girl  friends  by  her  side  and  looked  down  upon 
her  company  very  graciously  and  sweetly,  and 
wished  them  farewell.  Then  the  door  of  the  palace 
opened  and  swallowed  her  up  with  her  two  com- 
panions, and  when  she  had  gone  it  seemed  to  us 
watching  as  if  the  sunshine  had  gone  with  her, 
though  the  street  was  still  flooded  with  its  light. 

Then  Messer  Folco  spoke  again  to  the  multitude, 
saying  that  there  would  be  simple  cheer  and  sport 
provided  in  his  gardens  that  lay  in  the  meadow-land 
on  the  other  side  of  Arno  for  such  as  chose  to  go 
so  far,  at  which  his  hearers  cheered  again,  and  made 
all  speed  to  take  him  at  his  word  and  hurry  away 
over  the  bridge.  Thereafter  Messer  Folco  turned 
to  Messer  Simone,  as  if  inviting  him  to  enter. 

But  Messer  Simone  shook  his  head.  "Later, 
Messer  Folco,"  I  heard  him  say,  "later;  I  have 
some  busy  hours  before  me."  Then  Messer  Folco, 
acquiescing,  entered  his  great  house,  and  its  great 
doors  closed  behind  him,  and  those  that  were  con- 
veying the  car  wheeled  it  about  and  pulled  it  away, 
returning  on  the  road  by  which  they  had  come,  and 
by  this  time  most  of  the  revellers  had  departed 
over  bridge. 

Guido  and  I,  that  were  not  tempted  to  travel  so 
far  as  Messer  Folco's  river  gardens,  turning  to  our 
64 


THE    WORDS    OF   THE    IMAGE 

companion,  noted  that  Dante  was  standing  en- 
tranced with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  his  rose,  and  I 
heard  him  murmur  to  himself,  "O  wonderful 
world,  that  can  boast  of  so  wonderful  a  woman !" 

Now,  when  I  say  that  all  of  Madonna  Beatrice's 
escort  had  gone  from  there,  I  mean  that  the  gay 
youths  and  maidens  had  departed,  but  Messer 
Simone  dei  Bardi  had  remained  behind,  leaning 
against  the  wall  of  the  house  with  his  arms  folded 
and  an  evil  smile  on  his  face. 

Messer  Simone's  own  followers,  seeing  him,  lin- 
gered, waiting  upon  his  pleasure,  and  though  most 
of  the  May-day  merrymakers  had  disappeared, 
there  were  not  a  few  idlers  and  passers-by. 

There  were  a  certain  number  of  Messer  Guido's 
friends  there,  too,  that  had  joined  him  in  the  pro- 
cession, and  that  now  lingered  in  the  hope  to  bear 
him  with  them  to  some  merriment  more  to  their 
liking  than  Messer  Folco's  transpontine  hospitality. 
So  that  the  open  place  was  far  from  empty  for  all 
its  bigness. 


ONE   WAY   WITH   A   QUARREL 

NOW  when  the  door  had  shut  upon  Beatrice, 
Messer  Simone  shook  himself  from  the  wall 
and  advanced  with  a  steady,  heavy  stride  to  where 
Dante  stood  lost  in  contemplation  of  his  rose,  and 
I  thought  he  looked  like  some  ugly  giant  out  of  a 
fairy-tale,  and  his  sullen  eyes  were  full  of  mischief. 
He  came  hard  by  Messer  Dante,  and  spoke  to  him 
roughly.  "  I  do  not  care  to  see  you  and  that  flower 
in  fellowship." 

Now  both  Guido  and  I  feared  that  this  might 
breed  a  quarrel,  so  we  lingered,  and  Messer  Si- 
mone's  people  drew  together,  watching  their  lord, 
and  some  that  were  passing  paused  to  note  what 
was  toward.  But  Messer  Dante  lifted  his  head 
very  quietly,  and  looked  calmly  into  Simone's  angry 
face  and  spoke  him  seemingly  fair.  "The  world  is 
wide,  friend,"  he  said,  very  smoothly;  "you  have 
but  to  turn  the  corner,  and  I  and  my  flower  will  no 
longer  vex  your  vision." 

But  Simone  was  not  to  be  so  put  off.  "I  have 
a  mind  to  wear  that  rose  myself,"  he  said,  savagely, 
66 


ONE    WAY    WITH    A   QUARREL 

and  he  came  a  little  nearer  to  Dante  as  he  spoke, 
and  his  followers  dogged  his  advance,  ready  to 
obey  his  orders. 

He  looked  so  big  and  so  strong  and  so  brutal 
by  the  side  of  our  friend  that  I  was  ill  at  ease,  for 
I  knew  well  what  a  truculent  ruffian  this  Simone 
was. 

But  Dante  seemed  to  be  no  more  troubled  than 
he  would  have  been  by  the  buzzing  of  a  wasp. 
"Then  you  had  better  change  your  mind  speedily," 
he  answered,  in  an  even  voice,  "lest  being  crossed 
in  a  peevish  whim  sour  your  blood." 

Now,  the  being  spoken  to  so  sweetly,  and  yet 
with  words  that  had  so  little  of  sweetness  in  them 
and  no  fear  at  all,  teased  Messer  Simone's  black 
blood  till  it  bubbled  like  boiling  pitch,  and  his  voice 
had  got  a  kind  of  silly  scream  in  it,  as  he  cried: 
"Why,  you  damnable  reader  of  books,  you  pitiful 
clerk,  do  you  think  I  will  bandy  words  with  you  ? 
Give  me  that  rose  instantly,  or  I  will  cut  out  your 
heart  and  eat  it!" 

Dante  was  still  unruffled,  and  answered  him  very 
suavely,  "If  you  cut  out  my  heart  you  would  still 
find  the  rose  in  it  and  the  name  of  earth's  loveliest 
lady." 

Now  at  this  Messer  Simone's  face  showed  as  red 
as  an  old  roof-tile,  and  his  voice  was  hoarse  with 
anger  as  he  called,  furiously,  "Give  me  the  flower!" 

For  a  breathing  while  Dante  made  him  no  answer, 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

while  he  gathered  the  rose  carefully  together  in  the 
cup  of  his  hand  and  then  slipped  it  into  his  bosom. 
Then  he  spoke  to  Simone  with  a  grave  impatience. 
"You  are  a  boisterous  braggart,  and  you  scream 
like  the  east  wind.  I  am  very  weary  of  you." 

Simone  slapped  his  big  hand  to  the  hilt  of  his 
sword.  "Patter  an  Ave  quickly,"  he  growled, 
"ere  I  slay  you  with  the  sight  of  a  drawn  sword." 

It  was  such  a  menace  as  might  have  fretted  many 
a  man  that  was  brave  enough,  for  Simone  was  out 
of  the  common  tall  and  strong,  but  it  fretted  our 
Dante  no  whit,  and  he  only  smiled  derisively  at  the 
giant. 

By  this  time  the  brawl — for  such  it  was  proving  to 
be — had  begun  to  attract  public  notice,  and  those 
that  walked  halted  to  watch  the  altercation  between 
the  big  man  and  the  slim  youth.  I  caught  a  glimpse 
of  Monna  Vittoria  beneath  the  arcade,  and  saw 
amusement  on  her  face  and  wonder,  and  some  scorn 
of  Simone  and  much  admiration  of  Dante.  But  I 
had  no  time  to  concern  myself  with  Vittoria,  for 
now  Messer  Simone's  ringers  were  gripping  at 
the  hilt  of  his  weapon,  but  he  did  no  more  than 
grip  the  hilt  of  it.  Indeed,  I  do  not  think  that  he 
would  have  drawn  on  an  unarmed  man,  and  very 
likely  he  meant  no  more  than  to  frighten  the 
scholar.  If  this  were  Messer  Simone's  purpose,  it 
was  frankly  baffled  by  the  fact  that  Dante  did  not 
seem  to  be  frightened  at  all,  but  just  stood  his 
68 


ONE   WAY   WITH    A   QUARREL 

ground  and  watched  his  adversary  with  a  light  of 
quiet  amusement  in  his  eyes  that  was  very  exasperat- 
ing to  Simone.  The  whole  quarrel  had  kindled  and 
thriven  so  quickly  that  Messer  Guido,  who  was 
standing  apart  and  talking  with  certain  of  his 
friends,  had  as  yet  no  knowledge  of  it,  but  now  I 
moved  to  him  and  plucked  him  by  the  sleeve  and 
told  him  what  was  toward.  In  truth,  I  felt  no  small 
alarm  for  my  friend,  for  I  knew  him  to  have  no 
more  than  that  passable  facility  with  the  sword 
which  is  essential  to  gentility.  Then  Messer  Guido 
turned  and  came  with  me,  and  his  friends  followed 
him,  and  our  numbers  added  to  the  circle  that 
was  forming  about  the  disputants.  So  now,  while 
Messer  Simone  was  still  angrily  handling  his  sword- 
hilt,  and  while  the  smile  still  lingered  on  Dante's 
lips,  Messer  Guido  stepped  nimbly  between  the 
two,  being  eager  to  keep  the  peace  for  the  sake  of 
his  new-made  friend  that  seemed  so  slight  a  thing 
by  the  side  of  Simone. 

"How  now!"  Guido  cried,  aloud.  "I  hear  shrill 
words  that  seem  to  squeak  of  weapons.  What  is 
your  quarrel,  gentles  ?" 

If  every  man  there  present  knew  who  Messer 
Simone  of  the  Bardi  was  and  what  he  stood  for  in 
Florence,  so  also  every  man  there  present  knew 
who  Messer  Guido  of  the  Cavalcanti  was  and 
what  he  stood  for,  and  there  were  few  that  would 
have  denied  him  the  right  to  speak  his  mind  or 
69 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

to  question  the  cause  of  the  quarrel.  So  Messer 
Guido  stood  between  Dante  and  Simone,  looking 
from  one  to  the  other  of  the  pair  and  waiting  for  his 
answer. 

Dante  answered  in  a  kind  of  ironic  simplicity, 
and  he  seemed  to  me  as  I  looked  upon  him  like  a 
man  exalted  out  of  all  reason  by  some  great  joy. 
"It  is  but  a  gardener's  wrangle — how  best  to  guard 
roses  from  slugs." 

Simone  began  to  frown  upon  the  brawl  that  him- 
self had  caused,  and  he  looked  toward  Messer 
Guido,  whom  he  knew,  with  a  forced  show  of 
friendliness,  and  spoke  with  a  gruff  assumption  of 
good-humor.  "Messer  Guido,  will  you  tell  this 
blockhead  who  I  am  ?" 

Now,  Guido  was  as  good  a  swordsman  as  the 
best  man  in  Florence,  and  far  better  than  the  most 
that  handled  steel,  and  he  thought  and  spoke  in 
the  wish  to  protect  his  new-made  friend,  whom  he 
took  to  have  no  such  skill  as  his  own. 

"Gently,  gently,"  he  said  to  Simone,  and  his  tone 
was  by  no  means  gentle.  "My  friend's  name  is 
my  name,  and  I  take  terms  from  no  man.  You 
will  answer  me  now."  And  as  he  spoke  he  placed 
his  hand  upon  his  hilt,  and  made  ready  to 
draw. 

Now  at  this  Simone  frowned  again,  for  he  had  no 
personal  quarrel  with  Messer  Guido  Cavalcanti,  yet 
from  the  very  bullness  of  his  nature  he  would  take 
70 


ONE    WAY   WITH    A   QUARREL 

a  dare  from  no  man.  So  he  showed  his  teeth  and 
eased  his  blade  to  make  ready. 

But  Dante  moved  swiftly  forward  and  pulled 
Messer  Guido  from  between  him  and  Messer 
Simone,  doing  this  with  a  courtesy  due  to  one  of 
Messer  Guido's  standing,  yet  with  a  very  plain 
decision.  "Messer  Guido,"  he  said,  "I  entreat 
you  to  refrain.  I  guess  your  purpose,  but  I  will 
not  have  it  so.  This  is  my  quarrel,  and,  believe 
me,  I  can  handle  it." 

Guido  plucked  him  a  little  apart,  and  whispered 
him  hurriedly.  "This  is  Simone  of  the  Bardi,  a 
very  notable  soldier,"  he  said. 

I  heard  Dante  answer  him  very  calmly.  "Were 
he  a  very  notable  devil,  I  would  stand  to  him 
enough." 

By  this  time  Messer  Simone  was  in  such  a  black 
rage  at  being  thwarted  that  he  cared  not  what 
might  come  of  it,  and  he  called  out  to  Dante,  in  a 
bellowing  voice,  "Come,  sir,  come!  Will  you  fight 
or  yield  r" 

Messer  Dante's  carriage  showed  very  plainly  that 
he  would  not  yield;  of  a  contrary,  he  moved  com- 
posedly a  little  nearer  to  Simone,  still  smiling  and 
stretching  out  his  hands  as  he  went,  as  if  to  show 
that  he  held  no  weapon.  "Surely  I  will  not  yield," 
he  said;  and  then  questioned,  "But  how  shall  I 
fight,  being  swordless  ?" 

Simone  grinned  hideously  at  him.     "You  should 


THE    GOD    OF   LOVE 

have  remembered  that,"  he  said,  "before  you  chose 
to  play  hufty-dufty."  Then  he  scowled  and  pointed 
to  the  armed  men  about  them.  "Some  one  will 
lend  you  a  sword  if  you  have  the  courage  to  hold 
it,"  he  said,  scornfully. 

Once  again  Messer  Guido  intervened,  eagerly, 
passionately.  "For  God's  sake,  forbear,"  he  en- 
treated Dante,  and  thrusting  himself  against  the 
other.  "Messer  Simone,"  he  said,  "you  cannot 
deny  me  if  I  take  up  this  quarrel." 

My  Dante  laid  an  arresting  hand  upon  Messer 
Guido's  arm.  "Gently,  Messer  Guido,"  he  said, 
"you  are  too  good,  and  if  I  were  a  woman  I  could 
not  choose  a  nobler  champion.  But  being  no  better 
than  a  man,  I  must  even  champion  myself  to  the 
best  of  my  wit."  He  paused,  and  his  eyes  followed 
the  course  of  Simone's  gaze  and  then  came  back  to 
Simone.  "You  are  a  soldier,"  he  said;  "it  is 
your  business  to  kill.  You  prize  the  life  of  other 
men  lightly;  'tis  but  a  puff  of  your  heavy  breath 
and  out  goes  his  candle.  I  am  no  such  butcher, 
and  though  I  am  not  unskilled  in  arms,  we  should 
be  ill-matched,  you  and  I."  And  as  he  spoke  he 
laughed  softly,  as  at  some  jest  known  only  to 
himself. 

Now  Messer  Guido,  that  was  growing  very  angry, 

as  I  could  see  from  the  way  in  which  the  color 

quitted  his  cheeks,  thrust  himself  in  front  of  Dante, 

and  he  spoke  to  Simone  boldly.     "He  says  rightly," 

72 


ONE   WAY   WITH   A    QUARREL 

he  cried.  "A  stripling  against  your  bulk.  It  were 
murder." 

Simone  always  addressed  Messer  Guido  with  as 
much  courtesy  as  he  could  compass,  for  the  sake 
of  his  great  house  and  his  great  friends,  and  his 
standing  with  the  Reds,  that  was  as  high  as  his  cwn 
with  the  Yellows.  "Then  he  should  not  steal 
roses,"  he  answered,  quietly  enough.  But  im- 
mediately thereafter,  as  if  the  mention  of  roses  had 
stirred  him  to  fury,  his  wrath  foamed  over  again, 
and,  turning  to  Dante,  he  shouted,  "Give  me  the 
rose,  you  cowardly  clerk,  or  I  will  pinch  out  your 
life  between  finger  and  thumb!"  He  held  out  his 
huge  hand  as  he  spoke,  and  to  those  who  looked  at 
it,  or  to  me,  at  least,  among  the  multitude,  it  seemed 
easy  enough  for  him  to  carry  out  his  threat,  for 
Messer  Dante  looked  so  slight  and  spare  in  the 
front  of  such  a  ruffian. 

But  Messer  Dante  was  in  no  ways  discomposed, 
and  he  still  kept  smiling  while  he  shook  his  head, 
and  he  answered  very  quietly:  "Idle  giant,  you  will 
do  no  such  thing.  For  if  you  prize  my  life  very  little, 
you  prize  your  own  life  very  well.  Now,  while  I 
think  nothing  of  your  life,  I  also  think  nothing  of 
my  own,  and  would  rather  end  it  here  in  this  in- 
stant than  surrender  this  flower.  Why,  I  would  see 
a  hundred  fellows  like  you  dead  and  damned  to  save 
a  single  petal  of  it  from  the  pollution  of  such  filthy 
fingers."  He  paused  for  a  moment  and  paid 
73 


THE    GOD    OF    LOVE 

Messer  Simone  the  tribute  of  a  mocking  inclination 
of  the  head.  Then  he  spoke  very  clearly  and  sweetly. 
"I  hope  I  make  myself  clear  to  your  thick  head." 

Simone's  red  face  grew  redder.  "  By  Paul's  jaws, 
I  will  wring  your  squeaking  neck!"  he  said,  savagely, 
and  made  a  move  nearer  to  Dante. 

But  here  Guide's  paling  face  grew  paler,  and 
again  he  thrust  himself  between  Dante  and  Simone, 
and  his  sword  flashed  into  the  air.  "  By  Paul's  jaws, 
you  will  not!"  he  cried;  and  then  looking  about  him, 
he  shouted,  "A  Cavalcanti!  a  Cavalcanti!" 

At  that  cry  all  those  that  inclined  to  Messer 
Guido,  and  there  were  many  in  the  place,  bared 
their  swords  likewise  and  rallied  about  him  in  an 
eager  press  of  angry  men. 

When  Simone  saw  that  the  swords  were  out,  he 
drew  his  own  sword  and  raised  it  aloft  and  cried 
his  cry,  "A  Bardi!  a  Bardi!" 

Then  the  people  of  his  following  bared  their  wea- 
pons and  gathered  to  his  side,  and  such  of  the 
spectators  as  took  no  part  in  the  quarrel  drew  a 
little  apart,  for  fear  they  might  come  to  harm  in 
the  brawl,  but  still  went  not  very  far,  so  eager  is  the 
curiosity  of  all  Florentines  to  see  sights.  So  the 
folk  stood,  two  little  armies  of  fighting  men  facing 
each  other,  as  Greek  and  Trojan  faced  each  other 
long  ago,  and  ready  for  fighting,  as  Greek  and  Tro- 
jan fought,  and  as  men  always  will  fight  with  men, 
for  the  sake  of  a  woman.  And  I,  with  my  sword 
74 


ONE   WAY   WITH    A    QUARREL 

drawn,  being  never  so  intent  upon  battle  that  I 
have  not  an  eye  to  all  things  about  me,  could  see, 
looking  aloft,  that  a  curtain  was  drawn  from  a  win- 
dow in  the  great  house  of  the  Portinari,  and  that  a 
woman  stood  by  the  window,  and  I  made  sure  that 
the  woman's  name  was  Beatrice. 

But  this  Dante  saw  not  and  knew  not,  for  he 
stood  between  the  two  opposing  forces  very  com- 
posedly, with  the  same  quiet  smile  upon  his  face, 
and  he  held  up  his  hands  toward  either  party  as  a 
man  might  do  that  wished  to  sunder  and  pacify 
quarrelling  children.  "Gently,  friends,  gently,"  he 
said;  "there  is  a  pleasant  way  to  end  this  dilemma." 
Then  he  turned  to  me,  and  I  never  saw  his  face 
serener.  "Friend  Lappo,"  he  said,  "will  you  lend 
me  your  dice-bones  a  minute  ?" 

It  was  characteristic  of  his  readiness  in  the  pinch 
of  emergency  that  he  knew  where  to  apply  for  what 
he  needed,  for  I  was  at  that  time  a  most  inveterate 
gamester,  and  loved  to  stake  my  all,  which  for  the 
most  part  was  truly  little  enough,  upon  the  toss  of 
a  die;  and  for  my  greater  ease  in  this  exercise,  I 
ever  carried  the  bones  with  me  in  a  little  inner 
pocket  at  my  breast.  Now,  then,  for  Dante's 
pleasure,  though  indeed  I  did  not  know  what  he 
would  be  at,  I  lugged  them  out  of  their  concealment, 
and  dropped  the  three,  one  after  the  other,  into  his 
open  palm,  which  he  held  to  me  extended  there  as 
steady  as  the  palm  of  a  stone  image. 
6  75 


THE    GOD   OF   LOVE 

Dante  laughed  a  little  softly  to  himself  as  he  look- 
ed at  my  dice  where  they  lay,  and  indeed  it  was 
curious  to  see  him  and  them  in  such  close  com- 
panionship, for  Dante  had  no  taste  for  those 
gamblers'  games  that  I  delighted  in.  Then  he 
turned  and  showed  the  dice  to  Simone,  who  stared 
at  him  in  amazed  rage,  and  he  spoke  very  pleas- 
antly and  evenly  as  he  dandled  the  tools  of  chance. 
"Messer  Simone,"  he  said,  "here  be  three  cubes 
of  bone  that  shall  settle  our  quarrel  better  than 
shearing  steel.  We  will  throw  on  this  ground  here, 
you  and  I  in  turn,  and  he  that  has  the  ill-fortune  to 
make  the  lowest  cast  shall,  on  his  honor,  very  pres- 
ently kill  himself." 

At  this  drolling  challenge  most  of  the  spectators 
began  to  laugh,  and  the  laughter  ran  through  the 
ranks  of  Cavalcanti's  adherents,  and  even  found 
some  echo,  albeit  soon  stifled,  among  Bardi's  men. 

But  Simone  saw  no  laughter  in  the  matter. 
"You  are  a  fool!"  he  fumed.  It  was  plain  that  he 
felt  himself  to  be  at  a  disadvantage  before  the 
gravity  of  Dante's  disdainful  courage,  and  that  he 
was  better  with  blows  than  with  words.  "You  are 
a  fool!"  he  repeated. 

But  Dante  denied  him.  "I  am  wise."  Then 
he  moved  his  head  a  little  this  way  and  that,  as  if 
to  show  that  he  was  addressing  all  his  audience, 
and,  indeed,  there  was  not  a  man  in  all  that  assem- 
blage that  did  not  listen  to  him  intently,  Simone's 
76 


ONE   WAY   WITH    A    QUARREL 

own  following  not  excepted.  "  Fellow  Florentines," 
he  said,  "here  is  a  straight  challenge.  It  equals 
the  big  man  with  the  little;  it  fills  me  to  the  giant's 
girth  and  inches.  It  saves  him  from  shame  if  he 
wins,  for  it  were  little  to  his  credit  to  kill  a  civilian. 
It  denies  me  if  I  win  the  vainglory  of  overcoming  a 
Titan.  Is  not  this  an  honest  dare  ?" 

As  he  finished  speaking  he  looked  about  him, 
and  saw  sympathy  and  approval  on  the  faces  of 
most.  As  for  me,  I  was  so  taken  with  his  ingenuity 
and  his  insolence  in  thus  braving  the  big  fellow 
that  I  cried  aloud,  "Well  dared;  well  done." 
And  Guido  called  out  sharply,  addressing  the 
Bardi,  "Do  you  take  him,  Messer  Simone  ?  I 
will  be  surety  for  his  pledge." 

As  Messer  Guido  del  Cavalcanti  ended  there 
went  up  a  great  shout  of  applause  from  the  spec- 
tators, who  were  tickled  with  the  thought  of  witness- 
ing so  new  a  way  of  ending  a  quarrel.  While  they 
were  clapping  their  hands  and  laughing,  a  cunning, 
sharp-faced  fellow  named  Maleotti,  that  was  one 
of  Bardi's  men,  came  close  to  his  master,  and  spoke 
to  him  in  none  so  low  a  whisper  that  I  could  not 
hear  his  words.  "Consider,  signor,"  he  said; 
"this  were  a  mad  wager  to  accept,  for  the  State 
cannot  spare  you,  and  who  can  say  how  scraps  of 
bone  may  fall  ?  Yet,  if  you  refuse  and  force  a 
quarrel,  the  Cavalcanti  outnumber  us."  As  he 
spoke  he  indicated  with  quick  glances  of  his  evil 
77 


THE    GOD    OF   LOVE 

eyes  that  there  were  indeed  many  more  in  the  place 
that  seemed  to  side  with  Guido  than  friends  to  the 
Bardi. 

While  Messer  Simone,  seeing  this,  sucked  his 
lips  like  one  puzzled,  Dante  again  addressed  him 
in  the  same  bantering  manner.  "Come,"  he  cried, 
"'tis  but  a  toss  of  three  ivories  and  the  world  is 
lighter  by  one  of  us,  and  purgatory  the  more 
populous.  You  shall  toss  first  or  last,  as  you 
please."  As  he  spoke  he  shook  the  dice  invitingly 
on  his  extended  palm,  and  laughed  as  he  did  so. 

Simone  answered  him  with  a  great  frown  and  a 
great  voice.  "You  should  have  been  a  mounte- 
bank and  cried  cures  on  a  booth,  for  your  wit  is  as 
nimble  as  an  apothecary's  flea.  But  if  you  have 
any  man's  blood  in  you,  you  will  make  such  friends 
with  master  sword  that  hereafter  we  may  talk  to 
better  purpose.  Come,  friends."  So,  with  a  scowl- 
ing face,  Messer  Simone  jammed  his  sword  back 
again  into  its  scabbard,  and  he  and  his  fellows  went 
away  roughly,  and  the  crowd  parted  very  respect- 
fully before  them. 

At  the  wish  of  Messer  Guido,  his  friends  and 
sympathizers  went  their  ways;  and  as  for  the  crowd 
of  unconcerned  spectators,  they,  understanding  that 
there  was  nothing  more  to  stare  at,  went  their  ways 
too,  and  in  a  little  while  the  place  that  had  been 
so  full  and  busy  was  empty  and  idle,  and  Guido 
and  I  were  left  alone  with  Dante. 
78 


ONE   WAY   WITH    A    QUARREL 

As  we  stood  there  in  silence,  Madonna  Vittoria 
came  forward  from  her  shelter  under  the  arcade 
and  advanced  to  Dante,  and  addressed  him. 
"Give  me  leave,"  she  said,  "to  tell  you  that  you 
are  a  man  whose  love  any  woman  might  be  proud 
to  wear.  Beware  of  Simone  dei  Bardi.  I  know 
something  of  him.  He  is  neither  clever  enough  to 
forget  nor  generous  enough  to  forgive.  Remember, 
if  you  care  to  remember,  that  I  am  always  your 
friend." 

Dante  saluted  her.  "I  thank  you,"  he  said,  in 
a  dull,  tired  voice. 

Then  Madonna  Vittoria  went  her  way  over  the 
bridge  with  her  people  after  her,  and  when  she  was 
gone  I  made  bold  to  go  up  to  where  Dante  stood 
thoughtful,  and  clapped  him  on  the  back  in  very 
hearty  commendation  of  his  courage  and  daring. 
"You  have  bubbled  Simone  well,"  I  said,  joyously. 

But,  to  my  surprise,  Dante  turned  to  me  with  a 
face  that  was  not  at  all  joyous.  "I  think  he  had 
the  best  of  me  in  the  end,"  he  said,  sadly.  And  as 
he  spoke  he  hung  his  head  for  all  the  world  like  a 
schoolboy  that  had  been  reproved  before  his  class. 

Messer  Guido,  that  was  as  tender  to  melancholy 
as  a  gentlewoman,  caught  him  by  the  hand.  "Are 
you  teazed  by  that  fellow's  taunt  ?"  he  asked. 

Dante  sighed,  as  he  answered:  "To  the  quick 
of  my  heart.  Will  you  leave  me,  friends,  to  my 
thoughts  ?" 

79 


VI 

LOVER   AND    LASS 

T  SIGHED  in  my  turn  to  see  him  so  perverse  who 
1  had  been  so  triumphant.  "He  is  as  humorous 
as  a  chameleon,"  I  protested.  Then  Guido  and  I 
took  Dante  by  the  arms  to  lead  him  away,  I  applaud- 
ing him  for  his  cunning,  and  Guido  gently  reprov- 
ing him  for  his  foolhardiness  in  getting  into  a  quarrel 
with  such  a  man  of  might  as  Messer  Simone — had 
got  him  and  us  some  few  yards  from  the  scene  of 
the  scuffle  when  Dante  suddenly  came  to  a  halt 
and  would  budge  no  farther.  When  we  asked  him 
what  ailed  him,  he  told  us  that  he  had  left  his  book 
behind  him,  the  book  that  he  had  been  so  deep  in 
a  little  while  ago;  and  for  all  we  could  say  to  him, 
he  would  not  be  prevailed  upon,  but  must  needs 
return  for  his  precious  love-tale.  So  he  quitted  us 
and  returned  on  his  steps,  and  Guido  and  I  looked 
at  each  other  in  some  amusement,  thinking  what 
a  strange  fellow  our  Dante  was,  that  could  play 
scholar  and  lover  and  soldier  in  so  many  breaths, 
and  could  show  so  much  care  for  some  pages  of 
written  parchment.  Then  Guido  would  have  me 
80 


LOVER   AND    LASS 

go  with  him,  but  I  was  of  a  mind  to  see  what  Dante 
would  do  next,  and  was  fain  to  watch  him.  Guido 
disapproved  of  this,  and  he  would  not  share  in  it, 
saying  that  it  was  not  for  us  to  dog  the  heels  of  a 
friend. 

Guido  went  his  way  without  me,  for  it  seemed  to 
me  less  scrupulous  and  seeking  only  to  be  amused 
that  one  who  had  done  so  much  in  a  short  time  might 
well  be  counted  upon  to  do  more.  I  hid  in  the  ar- 
cade, and  I  saw  how  Dante  went  straight  to  the 
seat  where  he  had  left  his  book,  and  found  it  still 
lying  there,  and  took  it  up  and  thrust  it  into  his 
bosom.  And  when  he  had  done  this  he  turned 
and  went  like  v.  :ie  that  walked  in  a  dream — and  I 
spying  on  him  from  my  hiding-place — till  he  came 
to  the  front  of  the  Palace  of  the  Portinari,  and  there 
he  paused  and  gazed  wistfully  at  the  gray  walls. 
And  I,  concealing  myself  behind  a  convenient  pillar 
of  the  colonnade,  observed  him  unseen,  and  pres- 
ently saw  how  the  small  door  in  the  great  door  of 
the  gray  palace  opened,  and  how  Madonna  Beatrice 
came  out  of  it,  followed  by  two  girls,  her  com- 
panions. They  both  were  pretty  girls,  I  remem- 
ber, that  would  have  suited  my  taste  very  pleasantly. 
All  three  maidens  stood  on  top  of  the  steps  looking 
at  Dante  where  he  stood,  and  Dante  remained  in 
his  place  and  looked  up  at  them  silently  and 
eagerly. 

Madonna  Beatrice  seemed  to  hesitate  for  a  mo- 
81 


THE   GOD    OF   LOVE 

ment,  and  then,  quitting  her  companions,  descended 
the  steps  and  advanced  toward  Dante,  who,  seeing 
her  purpose,  advanced  in  his  turn  toward  her,  and 
they  met  in  the  middle  of  the  now  deserted  square. 
I  was  very  honestly — or  dishonestly,  which  you 
may  please — anxious  to  hear  what  these  two  might 
say  to  each  other,  so  I  lingered  in  my  lurking-place, 
and  there  I  lay  at  watch  and  strove  to  listen.  And 
because  the  time  was  very  peaceful,  and  I  very 
quiet  and  the  air  very  still  and  their  young  voices 
very  clear,  I  could  hear  much  and  guess  more,  and 
piecing  out  the  certain  with  the  probable,  record 
in  my  memory  this  delicate  dialogue. 

Madonna  Beatrice  spoke  first,  for  Dante  said 
nothing,  and  only  gazed  at  her  as  the  devout  gaze 
at  the  picture  of  a  saint,  and  there  was  some  note 
of  reproof  in  her  voice  as  she  spoke.  "Messer,"  she 
said,  "they  tell  me  that  you  have  fought  for  a  rose." 

Then  Dante  shook  his  head,  and  he  smiled  as 
he  answered,  blithely,  "Madonna,  I  fought  for  my 
flag,  for  my  honor,  for  the  glory  of  the  sempiternal 
rose." 

Beatrice  looked  at  him  with  a  little  wonder  on 
her  sweet  face.  "Was  it  very  wise  to  risk  a  man's 
life  for  a  trifle  ?"  she  asked. 

Dante  was  silent  for  a  short  time,  then  he  said: 
"There  are  trifles  that  outweigh  the  world  in  a  true 
balance.  I  would  die  a  death  for  every  petal  of 
that  rose." 

82 


LOVER   AND    LASS 

Beatrice  began  to  laugh  very  daintily,  and  spread 
out  her  pretty  palms.  "This  Florence  is  a  very 
nest  of  nightingales,"  she  said,  softly;  and  then  she 
added,  quaintly,  "You  talk  like  a  poet." 

I  heard  Dante  sigh  heavily  as  he  answered  her 
fancy.  "I  would  I  were  a  poet,  for  then  my  wor- 
ship would  have  words  which  now  shines  dumbly 
in  my  eyes." 

Beatrice  gave  him  a  little  mocking  salutation. 
"You  are  very  gallant,"  she  said.  "Farewell." 
There  was  a  hint  of  reproof  in  her  voice,  and  she 
made  as  if  to  go. 

But  Dante  stopped  her.  "Stay,  lady,  stay,"  he 
protested.  "I  speak  with  a  simple  heart.  I  have 
been  your  servant  ever  since  you  took  a  rose  from 
my  hands.  I  am  your  servant  forever,  now  that 
you  have  given  me  a  rose.  We  are  old  friends, 
sweet  lady,  though  we  wear  young  faces,  and 
friends  may  speak  their  minds  to  friends." 

Then  Beatrice  asked  him,  "Who  are  you  wno 
risked  your  life  for  my  rose  ?" 

Dante  answered  her:  "I  am  named  Dante 
Alighieri.  Yesterday  I  was  nobody.  To-day  I 
would  not  change  places  with  the  Emperor,  since 
I  declare  myself  your  servant." 

Beatrice  smiled  a  smile  of  sweet  content,  and  I 

could  see  that  she  was  both  amused  and  pleased. 

"I  am  glad  we  are  old  friends,"  she  said,  "for  so 

it  was  not  unmaidenly  of  me  to  speak  to  you,  but 

83 


THE    GOD    OF    LOVE 

indeed  I  was  grieved  to  think  I  had  put  you  in 
peril.  I  did  not  think  what  I  did  when  I  threw 
you  that  flower.  I  only  felt  that  we  were  children 
again,  you  and  I.  Forgive  me." 

"It  was  a  happy  peril,"  Dante  declared,  gladly. 

Again  Beatrice  said  him  farewell  and  turned  to 
go,  and  again  Dante  stayed  her,  and  when  she  had 
paused  he  looked  as  if  he  knew  not  what  to  say; 
but  at  last  he  questioned,  "When  may  we  meet 
again  ?" 

Beatrice  answered  him  gravely.  "Florence  is 
not  so  wide  a  world  that  you  should  fear  to  lose 
sight  of  a  friend." 

Once  more  she  made  as  if  she  would  join  her  com- 
panion maidens,  but  as  she  did  so  Dante  looked 
all  about  him  with  an  air  of  great  surprise,  and  I 
heard  him  say:  "How  dark  the  air  grows.  I  fear 
an  eclipse." 

Beatrice,  pausing  in  her  path,  cried  to  him, 
marvelling,  "Why,  the  sun  is  at  its  brightest." 

Dante  shook  his  head.  "I  do  not  find  it  so  when 
you  are  leaving  me." 

Then  I  think  that  Beatrice  looked  half  alarmed 
and  half  diverted  at  the  way  of  Dante's  speech,  and 
I  heard  her  say,  "Is  not  the  spring  of  our  friend- 
ship something  too  raw  for  such  ripeness  of  com- 
pliment ?" 

Dante  persisted.  "I  would  speak  simpler  and 
straighter  if  I  dared." 

84 


LOVER   AND   LASS 

Then  Beatrice  shook  her  head  and  tried  to  wear 
an  air  of  severity,  but  failed  because  she  could  not 
help  smiling.  "The  arrows  of  your  wit  must  not 
take  me  for  their  target,"  she  said,  and  made  a 
pretence  to  frown. 

Then  Dante,  at  a  loss  what  to  say,  made  the  best 
plea  he  could  when  he  pleaded,  "Pity  me." 

At  that  cry  the  growing  gravity  on  the  girl's  face 
softened  to  her  familiar  gentleness,  for  she  was 
touched,  as  all  women  who  are  worthy  of  woman- 
hood must  be  touched  by  that  divine  appeal.  "Are 
you  in  need  of  pity  ?"  she  said,  softly. 

And  Dante  answered,  instantly,  "Neck-deep  in 
need." 

Then  he  sighed  and  Beatrice  sighed,  and  she 
said,  very  kindly,  "In  that  case,  I  pity  you,"  and 
made  again  to  leave  him,  and  again  the  appeal  in 
his  eyes  stayed  her. 

"Can  you  do  no  more  than  pity  me  ?"  he  asked. 

Beatrice  was  smiling  now,  for  all  she  strove  to 
be  serious.  "Why,  you  are  for  a  greedy  garner; 
you  want  flower,  fruit,  and  all,  in  a  breath." 

I  could  see  Messer  Dante's  face  suddenly  stiffen 
into  solemnity;  I  could  hear  Messer  Dante's  voice, 
for  all  its  youthful  freshness,  take  upon  it  the  gravity 
of  age.  "For  nine  years,  day  in  and  day  out,  I 
have  thought  of  you,"  he  sighed.  "Have  you  ever 
thought  of  me  ?" 

He  looked  steadfastly  at  the  girl  as  he  spoke, 
85 


THE    GOD    OF    LOVE 

and  if  there  was  much  of  entreaty  in  his  question 
there  was  something  of  command  also,  as  if  he 
chose  to  compel  her  to  tell  him  the  very  truth.  And 
the  girl  answered,  indeed,  as  if  she  were  compelled 
to  speak  and  could  not  deny  him,  and  her  cheeks 
were  as  pink  as  the  earliest  roses  as  she  answered 
him:  "Sometimes." 

Again  Dante  spoke  and  questioned  her,  and 
again  in  his  carriage  and  in  his  voice  there  was  that 
same  note  of  command.  "With  what  thoughts?" 

But  I  could  plainly  see  that  if  our  Dante  would 
seek  to  give  orders  to  the  girl  with  an  authority 
that  was  beyond  his  years,  the  girl  could  meet  his 
assumption  of  domination  with  a  composure  that 
was  partly  grave  and  partly  humorous  and  wholly 
adorable. 

She  nodded  very  pleasantly  at  him  as  she  an- 
swered, "Kind  thoughts  for  the  gentle  child  who 
gave  his  rose  to  a  little  girl." 

I  knew  very  well,  as  I  leaned  and  listened,  that 
the  mind  of  Dante  leaped  back  on  that  instant  to 
the  day  he  had  told  us  of  so  little  a  while  before, 
the  day  nine  years  ago  when,  as  the  sweet  lady  said, 
he  gave  his  rose  to  a  little  girl.  I  knew,  too,  that 
the  chance  meeting  with  Madonna  Beatrice  on  this 
fair  morning  must  in  some  mighty  fashion  alter  the 
life  of  my  friend.  The  fantastic  love  which  he,  a 
child  of  nine,  felt  or  professed  to  feel  for  the  little 
girl  of  a  like  age  was  now,  through  this  accident, 
86 


LOVER   AND    LASS 

setting  his  soul  and  body  on  fire  and  forcing  him  to 
say  wild  words,  as  a  little  while  back  it  had  forced 
him  to  do  wild  deeds,  out  of  the  very  exhilaration 
of  madness.  And  Dante  spoke  as  all  lovers  speak 
when  they  wish  to  touch  the  hearts  of  their  ladies, 
only  making  me  who  was  listening  not  a  little 
jealous,  seeing  that  he  spoke  better  than  most 
that  I  knew  of. 

"Madonna,"  he  said,  "Madonna,  the  lover-poets 
of  our  city  are  very  prodigal  of  protestations — what 
will  they  not  do  for  their  lady  ?  They  offer  her  the 
sun,  moon,  and  stars  for  her  playthings — and  in 
the  end  she  is  fortunate  if  she  gets  so  much  as  a 
farthing  rushlight  to  burn  at  her  shrine." 

Beatrice  was  listening  to  him  with  the  bright 
smile  upon  her  face  which  for  me  was  the  best  part 
of  a  beauty  that,  if  I  had  been  in  Dante's  place, 
I  should  have  found  a  thought  too  seraphic  and 
unearthly  for  my  fancy. 

"My  heart,"  she  assured  him,  "would  never  be 
touched  by  such  sounding  phrases." 

Now  Dante's  face  glowed  with  the  fire  that  was 
in  him,  and  his  words  seemed  to  glow  as  he  spoke 
like  gold  coins  dropping  new-moulded  from  the 
mint.  "I  am  no  god  to  give  you  a  god's  gifts,"  he 
protested.  "But  of  what  a  plain  man  may  proffer 
from  the  heart  of  his  heart  and  the  soul  of  his 
soul,  say,  is  there  any  gift  I  can  give  you  in  sign 
of  my  service  ?" 

87 


THE    GOD    OF   LOVE 

The  bright  smile  on  the  face  of  Beatrice  changed 
to  a  gracious  air  of  thoughtfulness,  and  I  think  I 
should  have  been  glad  had  I  been  wooing  a  woman 
in  such  fashion  to  have  seen  such  a  look  on  the 
face  of  my  fair.  "Messer  Dante,"  she  said,  "you 
have  some  right  to  be  familiar  with  me,  for  you 
risked  your  life  for  my  rose.  So  I  will  answer  your 
frankness  frankly.  Men  have  tried  to  please  me  and 
failed,  for  I  think  I  am  not  easy  to  please  greatly.'' 

Dante  stretched  out  both  his  hands  to  her.  "Let 
me  try  to  please  you!"  he  cried. 

The  girl  answered  him,  speaking  very  slowly,  as 
if  she  were  carefully  turning  her  thoughts  into 
words  and  weighing  her  words  while  she  uttered 
them.  "That  is  in  your  own  hands.  I  do  not 
cry  for  the  sun  and  stars  and  the  shining  impos- 
sibilities. But  I  am  a  woman,  and  if  a  man  did 
brave  deeds  (and  by  brave  deeds  I  do  not  mean 
risking  two  souls  for  the  sake  of  a  rose)  or  good 
deeds  (and  by  good  deeds  I  do  not  mean  the 
rhyming  of  pretty  rhymes  in  my  honor),  and  did 
them  for  love  of  me,  why,  I  have  so  much  of  my 
grandmother  Eve  in  me  that  I  believe  I  should  be 
pleased." 

I  saw  Dante  draw  himself  up  as  a  soldier  might 
in  the  ranks  when  he  saw  his  general  riding  by 
and  thought  that  the  rider's  eye  was  upon  him. 
"With  God's  help,"  he  vowed,  "you  shall  hear 
better  things  of  me." 

88 


LOVER   AND   LASS 

There  was  a  look  of  such  fine  kindness  on  Bea- 
trice's face  while  he  spoke  thus  as  made  even  me, 
that  am  a  man  of  common  clay,  and  like  love  as  I 
like  wine  and  victuals,  thrill  in  my  hiding-place. 
"I  hope  as  much,"  she  said,  softly — "almost  believe 
as  much.  But  I  linger  too  long,  and  my  comrades 
wonder.  Farewell." 

She  gave  him  an  enchanting  salutation,  and 
Dante  bowed  his  head.  "Farewell,  most  fair 
lady,"  he  murmured. 

Then  Beatrice  moved  away  from  him,  and 
ascended  the  steps  where  the  two  girls  stood  and 
waited  for  her,  and  she  laid  her  white  finger  on  the 
ring  of  brass  that  governed  the  lock  of  the  little 
door,  and  the  little  door  opened  and  she  passed 
into  the  gray  palace,  she  and  her  maids,  and  to  me 
too,  as  I  am  very  sure  to  Dante,  the  world  seemed 
in  a  twinkling  robbed  of  its  sweetness.  For  though, 
as  I  have  said,  Madonna  Beatrice  was  never  a 
woman  for  me  to  love,  I  could  well  believe  that  to 
the  man  who  loved  her  there  could  be  no  woman 
else  on  the  whole  wide  earth,  which,  as  I  think,  is 
an  uncomfortable  form  of  loving. 

When  she  had  gone  Dante  stood  there  very 
silent  for  a  while,  and  it  may  be  that  I,  tired  of 
watching  him,  drifted  into  a  doze,  and  leaned  there 
for  a  while  against  my  sheltering  pillar  with  closed 
lids,  as  sometimes  happens  to  men  that  are  weary 
of  waiting.  If  this  were  so,  it  would  explain  why 
89 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

I  did  not  see  what  seems  to  have  happened  then — 
or  perhaps  it  was  because  I  was  of  a  temper  and 
composition  less  fine  than  my  friend's  that  I  was 
not  permitted  to  see  such  sights.  But  it  appears, 
as  I  learned  from  his  lips  later,  that  as  he  stood 
there  in  all  the  ecstacy  of  his  sweet  intercourse  with 
the  well-beloved,  the  painted  image  of  the  God  of 
Love  that  stood  beside  the  bridge,  above  the  foun- 
tain, came  to  life  again,  and  moved  and  came  in 
front  of  Dante  and  looked  upon  him  very  search- 
ingly.  The  God  of  Love  lifted  the  hand  that  car- 
ried his  fateful  arrow  and  pointed  with  the  dart 
toward  the  gray  palace,  and  it  spoke  to  Dante 
in  a  voice  of  command,  and  said,  "Behold  thy 
heart."  Then  Dante  felt  no  fear  such  as  he  had 
felt  at  the  first  appearance  of  the  God  of  Love,  but 
only  an  almost  intolerable  sense  of  joy  at  the  glory 
and  the  beauty  and  the  divinity  of  true  and  noble 
love.  And  he  said  to  himself,  as  if  he  whispered  a 
prayer,  "O  Blessed  Beatrice,"  and  therewith  the 
figure  of  the  God  of  Love  departed  back  to  its 
familiar  place. 

If  I  had,  indeed,  been  dozing,  my  sleep  lasted  no 
longer  than  this,  and  I  was  conscious  again,  and 
saw  Dante,  and  I  leaped  from  my  hiding-place  and 
ran  to  where  Dante  stood  alone  in  the  square,  with 
his  hands  against  his  face.  I  called  to  him,  as  I  came 
up,  "Dante,  are  you  drowned  in  a  wonder?"  and 
at  the  sound  of  my  voice  Dante  plucked  the  fingers 
90 


LOVER   AND   LASS 

from  his  face  and  stared  at  me  vacantly,  as  if  he  did 
not  know  me.  This  gaze  of  ignorance  lasted,  it 
may  be,  for  the  better  part  of  a  minute. 

Then  Dante,  seeming  to  recognize  me,  all  of  a 
sudden  drew  me  toward  him  and  spoke  as  a  man 
speaks  that  tells  strange  truths  truly.  "Friend," 
he  said,  "you  are  well  met,  for  you  see  me  now  as 
I  am  who  will  never  see  me  again  as  I  was.  I  am 
become  a  man,  for  I  love  God's  loveliest  woman. 
Enough  of  nobility  in  name;  I  mean  to  prove 
nobility  in  deed.  Say  to  my  friends  that  Dante  of 
the  Alighieri,  a  Florentine,  and  a  lover,  devotes 
himself  for  love's  sake  to  the  service  of  his  city." 

And  when  he  had  spoken  he  stood  very  still  with 
his  hands  clasped  before  him,  and  I,  because  it  is 
my  way  to  laugh  at  all  things,  laughed  at  him,  and 
cried  out:  "Holy  Saint  Plato,  what  a  hot  change  of 
a  cold  heart!  Bring  bell,  book,  and  candle,  for 
Jack  Idle  is  dead  and  Adam  Active  is  his  heir." 

But  Dante  turned  his  face  to  me,  and  his  eyes 
were  shining  very  bright,  and  he  looked  younger 
than  his  youth,  and  he  spoke  to  me  not  as  if  he 
were  chiding  my  mirth,  but  as  if  he  were  telling 
me  a  piece  of  welcome  news,  and  he  said,  very 
gently,  "Here  beginneth  the  New  Life." 


VII 

CONCERNING    POETRY 

NOW  you  must  know  that  after  that  whimsical 
encounter  of  wit  between  Dante  and  Simone, 
which  I  have  already  narrated,  Messer  Dante  seem- 
ed to  change  his  mood  again,  as  he  had  changed 
his  mood  oft-time  before.  Messer  Brunetto  Latini 
saw  much  less  of  his  promising  pupil,  and  a  certain 
old  soldier  that  was  great  at  sword-play  much 
more,  and  there  was  less  in  Dante's  life  of  the 
ancient  philosophies  and  more  of  the  modern 
chivalries.  I  presently  found  out  that  Messer 
Dante,  having  taken  much  to  heart  that  gibing 
defiance  of  Simone  of  the  Bardi,  had  set  himself, 
with  that  stubborn  resolution  which  characterized 
all  his  purposes,  to  making  himself  a  master  of  the 
sword.  Of  this,  indeed,  he  said  nothing  to  me  or 
other  man,  but  Florence,  for  all  that  it  is  so  great 
and  famous  a  city,  is  none  so  large  that  a  man  can 
easily  hide  his  business  there  from  the  eyes  of  those 
that  have  a  mind  to  find  out  that  business.  So 
I  learned  that  Dante,  who  had  been,  as  I  told 
you  before,  no  more  than  a  passable  master  of  the 
92 


CONCERNING    POETRY 

weapon,  now  set  himself  to  gain  supremacy  over  it. 
Day  after  day,  through  long  hours,  Dante  labored 
at  his  appointed  task,  bracing  his  sinews,  strength- 
ening his  muscles,  steadying  his  eye,  doing,  in  a 
word,  all  that  a  spare  and  studious  youth  must  do 
who  would  turn  himself  into  a  strong  and  skilful 
soldier.  And  because  whatever  Dante  set  head 
and  heart  and  hand  to  he  was  like  to  accomplish, 
I  learned  later  what  I  guessed  from  the  beginning 
— that  his  patience  had  its  reward. 

By  reason  of  his  white-hot  zeal  and  tireless  de- 
termination, Dante  gained  his  desired  end  sooner 
than  many  a  one  whom  nature  had  better  moulded 
for  the  purpose.  And  being  of  a  generous  eager- 
ness to  learn,  he  did  not  content  himself  with  mas- 
tering alone  the  more  skilled  usage  of  the  sword, 
but  made  his  earnest  study  of  the  carriage  and 
command  of  other  weapons,  and  he  applied  him- 
self, besides,  to  the  investigation  of  the  theory  and 
practice  of  war  as  it  is  waged  between  great  cities 
and  great  states,  and  to  the  history  of  military 
affairs  as  they  are  set  forth  and  expounded  in  the 
lives  of  famous  captains,  such  as  Alexander,  and 
Caesar,  and  their  like.  Had  he  been  in  expectation 
of  sudden  elevation  to  the  headship  of  the  Republic, 
he  could  not  have  toiled  more  furiously,  nor  more 
wisely  devoured  a  week's  lesson  in  a  day,  a  month's 
lesson  in  a  week,  a  year's  lesson  in  a  month,  with 
all  the  splendid  madness  of  desireful  youth. 
93 


THE   GOD    OF    LOVE 

But  the  marvel  of  it  all  was  that  he  did  not 
suffer  these  studies,  arduous  as  they  were,  to  eat 
up  his  time  and  his  mind,  but  he  kept  store  of  both 
to  spare  for  yet  another  kind  of  enterprise  no  less 
exacting  and  momentous,  albeit  to  my  mind  in- 
finitely more  interesting.  I  will  freely  admit  that 
I  was  never  other  than  an  indifferent  soldier.  I 
did  my  part  when  the  time  came,  as  I  am  glad  to 
remember,  not  without  sufficient  courage  if  wholly 
without  distinction,  but  there  was  ever  more  pleas- 
ure for  me  in  the  balancing  of  a  rhyme  than  in  the 
handling  of  a  pike,  and  I  would  liefer  have  been 
Catullus  than  Caesar  any  day  of  the  week.  So  the 
work  that  Dante  did  in  his  little  leisure  from  ap- 
plication to  arms  is  the  work  that  wonders  me  and 
delights  me,  and  that  fills  my  memory,  as  I  think  of 
it,  with  exquisite  melodies. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  sundry  poets  of  the 
city,  of  whom  let  us  say  that  Messer  Guido  Caval- 
canti  was  the  greatest  and  your  poor  servant  the 
least,  began  to  receive  certain  gifts  of  verses  very 
clearly  writ  on  fair  skins  of  parchment,  which  gave 
them  a  great  pleasure  and  threw  them  into  a  great 
amazement.  For  it  was  very  plain  that  the  writer 
of  these  verses  was  one  in  whose  ear  the  god  Apollo 
whispered,  was  one  that  knew,  as  it  seemed,  better 
than  the  best  of  us,  how  to  wed  the  warmest  thoughts 
of  the  heart  to  the  most  exquisite  music  of  flowing 
words.  These  verses,  that  were  for  the  most  part 
94 


CONCERNING    POETRY 

sonnets  and  longer  songs,  were  all  dedicated  to  the 
service  of  love  and  the  praise  of  a  nameless  lady, 
and  they  were  all  written  in  that  common  speech 
which  such  as  I  talked  to  the  men  and  women  about 
me,  so  that  there  was  no  man  nor  woman  in  the 
streets  but  could  understand  their  meaning  if  once 
they  heard  them  spoken — a  fact  which  I  understand 
gave  great  grief  to  Messer  Brunetto  Latini  when 
some  of  these  honey-sweet  verses  of  the  unknown 
were  laid  before  him. 

To  Messer  Brunette's  eyes  and  to  Messer  Bru- 
netto's  ears  and  to  Messer  Brunetto's  understanding 
there  was  but  one  language  in  the  world  that  was 
fit  for  the  utterances  and  the  delectation  of  scholars, 
and  that  language,  of  course,  was  the  language  which 
he  wrote  so  well — the  Latin  of  old-time  Rome. 
If  a  man  must  take  the  love-sickness,  so  Messer 
Brunetto  argued,  and  must  needs  express  the  per- 
fidious folly  in  words,  what  better  vehicle  could 
he  have  for  his  salacious  fancy  than  the  forms  and 
modes  and  moods  which  contented  the  amorous 
Ovidius,  and  the  sprightly  Tibullus,  and  the  hot- 
headed, hot-hearted  Catullus,  and  the  tuneful  Pe- 
tronius,  and  so  on,  to  much  the  same  purpose, 
through  a  string  of  ancient  amorists  ?  But  we 
that  were  younger  than  Messer  Brunetto,  and 
simpler,  and  certainly  more  ignorant,  we  found  a 
great  pleasure  in  these  verses  that  were  so  easy 
to  understand  as  to  their  language,  if  their 
95 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

meaning  was  sometimes   a  thought  mystical    and 
cryptic. 

The  fame  of  these  verses  spread  widely,  because 
no  man  of  us  that  received  a  copy  kept  the  donation 
to  himself,  but  made  haste  to  place  abroad  the 
message  that  had  been  sent  to  him.  So  that  in  a 
little  while  all  Florence  that  had  any  care  for  the 
Graces  was  murmuring  these  verses,  and  wondering 
who  it  was  that  wrote  them,  and  why  it  was  that  he 
wrote.  It  seems  to  me  strange  now,  looking  back 
on  all  these  matters  through  the  lapse  of  years,  and 
through  a  mist  of  sad  and  happy  memories,  that  I 
was  not  wise  enough  to  guess  at  once  who  the  man 
must  be  that  made  these  miraculous  stanzas.  I 
can  only  plead  in  my  own  excuse  that  I  did  not 
live  a  generation  later  than  my  day,  and  that  I  had 
no  means  of  divining  that  a  work-a-day  friend  pos- 
sessed immortal  qualities.  Everybody  now  in  this 
late  evening  knows  who  that  poet  was,  and  loves 
him.  I  knew  and  loved  him  then,  when  I  had  no 
thought  that  he  was  a  poet.  Even  if  it  had  been 
given  me  to  make  a  wild  guess  at  the  authorship  of 
these  poems,  and  my  guess  had  chanced  all  un- 
witting to  be  right,  as  would  have  been  thereafter 
proved,  I  should  have  dismissed  it  from  my  fancy. 
For  I  conceived  that  my  friend  was  so  busy  upon 
that  new  red-hot  business  of  his  of  fitting  himself 
to  be  a  soldier  and  use  arms,  and  answer  the  taunt 
of  Simone  dei  Bardi,  that  he  could  have  no  time, 
96 


CONCERNING   POETRY 

even  if  he  had  the  desire,  of  which,  as  far  as  I  was 
aware  till  then,  he  had  shown  no  sign,  to  try  his 
skill  on  the  strings  of  the  muses.  You  may  be 
pleased  here  to  remind  me  of  the  discourse  between 
Messer  Brunette  Latini  and  Dante,  which  I  strove  to 
overhear  on  that  May  morning  in  the  Piazza  Santa 
Felicita,  to  which  I  will  make  bold  to  answer  that 
I  did  not  truly  overhear  much  at  the  time,  and  that 
the  substance  of  what  I  set  down  was  garnered 
later,  both  from  Dante  and  from  Messer  Brunetto. 
But  even  if  I  had  caught  sound  of  those  poetical 
aspirations  of  Dante's,  I  doubt  if  they  would  have 
stuck  in  my  memory. 

I  suppose  it  was  not  for  such  an  idle  fellow  as  I, 
to  whom  to  do  nothing  was  ever  better  than  to  do — 
I  speak,  of  course,  of  any  measure  of  painful  labor, 
and  not  of  such  pleasing  pastime  as  eating  or  drink- 
ing or  loving — to  guess  how  much  a  great  brain 
and  a  great  heart  and  a  great  purpose  could  crowd 
into  the  narrow  compass  of  a  little  life.  In  the 
mean  time,  as  I  say,  these  songs  and  sonnets  were 
blown  abroad  all  over  Florence,  and  men  whis- 
pered them  to  maids,  and  the  men  wondered  who 
wrote  the  rhymes  and  the  maids  wondered  for 
whom  they  were  written. 

They  would  come  to  us,  these  rhymes,  curiously 
enough.  One  or  other  of  us  would  find  some  even- 
ing, on  his  return  to  his  lodging,  a  scroll  of  parch- 
ment lying  on  his  table,  and  on  this  scroll  of  parch- 
97 


THE   GOD   OF    LOVE 

ment  some  new  verses,  and  in  the  corner  of  the 
parchment  the  words  in  the  Latin  tongue,  "Take 
up,  read,  bear  on."  And  he  of  us  that  found  him- 
self so  favored,  having  eagerly  taken  up  and  no 
less  eagerly  read,  would  hurry  to  the  nearest  of  his 
comrades  and  read  the  new  gift  to  him,  delighted, 
who  would  busy  himself  at  once  to  make  a  fair  copy 
before  speeding  the  verses  to  another.  So  their 
fame  spread,  and  so  the  copies  multiplied,  till  there 
was  never  a  musical  youth  in  Florence  that  did  not 
know  the  better  part  of  them  by  heart;  and  still, 
for  all  this  publicity,  there  was  no  man  could  say 
who  wrote  the  rhymes,  nor  who  was  the  lady  they 
honored.  I  think  and  believe,  indeed,  there  were 
many  in  Florence  who  would  gladly  have  declared 
themselves  the  author,  but  dared  not  for  fear  of 
detection,  and  who  contented  themselves  by  slight 
hints  and  suggestions  and  innuendoes,  which  earned 
them,  for  a  time,  a  brief  measure  of  interest,  soon 
to  be  dissipated  by  the  manifest  certainty  of  their 
incapacity. 

And  the  first. of  all  these  sonnets  was  that  which 
is  now  as  familiar  as  honey  on  the  lips  of  every 
lover  of  suave  songs — I  mean  that  sonnet  which 
begins  with  the  words: 

"To  every  prisoned  soul  and  gentle  heart — " 

To  this  sonnet  it  pleased  many  of  our  poets  of 
the  city  to  write  their  replies,  though  they  knew 


CONCERNING    POETRY 

not  then  to  whom  they  were  replying,  and  Messer 
Guido  Cavalcanti  wrote  his  famous  sonnet,  the  one 
that  begins: 

"Unto  my  thinking  thou  beheldst  all  worth — " 

Now  I,  being  fired  by  the  same  spirit  of  rhyming 
that  was  abroad,  but  being  of  a  different  temper 
from  the  most  of  my  fellows,  took  it  upon  me  to 
pretend  a  resentment  of  all  this  beautiful  talk  of 
Love  and  My  Lady.  So  I  wrote  a  sonnet,  and  here 
it  is,  urging  the  advantages  of  a  plurality  in  love- 
affairs  : 

"Give  me  a  jolly  girl,  or  two,  or  three — 
The  more  the  merrier  for  my  weathercock  whim; 
And  one  shall  be  like  Juno,  large  of  limb 
And  large  of  heart;    and  Venus  one  shall  be, 
Golden,  with  eyes  like  the  capricious  sea; 
And  my  third  sweetheart,  Dian,  shall  be  slim 
With  a  boy's  slimness,  flanks  and  bosom  trim, 
The  green,  sharp  apple  of  the  ancient  tree. 
With  such  a  trinity  to  please  each  mood 
I  should  not  find  a  summer  day  too  long, 
With  blood  of  purple  grapes  to  fire  my  blood, 
And  for  my  soul  some  thicket-haunting  song 
Of  Pan  and  naughty  nymphs,  and  all  the  throng 
Of  light  o'  loves  and  wantons  since  the  Flood." 

I   showed  this    sonnet   to   Messer   Guido,  who 
laughed  a  little,  and  said  that  I  might  be  the  laureate 
99 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

of  the  tavern  and  the  brothel,  but  that  this  new  and 
nameless  singer  was  a  man  of  another  metal,  whom 
I  could  never  understand.  Whereat  I  laughed,  too; 
but  being  none  the  less  a  little  piqued,  as  I  think, 
I  made  it  a  point  thereafter,  whenever  Guido  had 
one  of  these  new  poems  come  to  him,  to  answer  it 
with  some  poem  of  my  own,  cast  in  a  similar  form 
to  that  chosen  by  the  unknown.  But  my  verses 
were  always  written  in  praise  of  the  simple  and 
straightforward  pleasures  of  sensible  men,  to  whom 
all  this  talk  about  the  God  of  Love  and  about  some 
single  exalted  lady  seems  strangely  away  from  the 
mark  of  wise  living.  For  assuredly  if  it  be  a  pleas- 
ant thing  to  love  one  woman,  it  is  twenty  times  as 
pleasant  to  love  twenty.  But  I  will  not  give  you 
all  of  these  poems,  nor  perhaps  any  more,  for  you 
can  read  them  for  yourselves,  if  you  wish  to,  in  my 
writings. 

Now  in  a  little  while  this  same  unknown  poet 
was  pleased  to  put  abroad  a  certain  ballad  of  his  that 
was  ostensibly  given  over  to  the  praise  of  certain 
lovely  ladies  of  our  city.  Florence  was  always  a 
very  paradise  of  fair  women.  An  inflammable 
fellow  like  myself  could  not  walk  the  length  of  a 
single  street  without  running  the  risk  of  half  a 
dozen  heartaches,  and  never  was  traveller  that  came 
and  went  but  was  loud  in  his  laudations  of  the  loveli- 
ness of  Florence  feminine.  A  poet,  therefore,  could 
scarcely  have  a  more  alluring  theme  or  a  livelier 
100 


CONCERNING    POETRY 

or  more  likable,  and  the  fact  that  the  mysterious 
singer  had  taken  such  a  subject  for  his  inspiration 
was  rightly  regarded  as  another  instance  of  his 
exceeding  good  sense.  It  was  a  very  beautiful 
ballad,  fully  worthy  of  its  honorable  subject,  and 
it  paid  many  compliments  of  an  exquisite  felicity 
to  many  ladies  that  were  indicated  plainly  enough 
by  some  play  upon  a  name  or  some  praise  of  an 
attribute.  But  it  was,  or  might  have  been,  plain 
enough  to  all  that  read  it  that  this  poem  was  written 
for  no  other  purpose  than  to  bring  in  by  a  side 
wind,  as  it  were,  the  praise  of  a  lady  that  was  left 
nameless,  but  that  he  who  wrote  declared  to  be 
the  loveliest  lady  in  that  noble  city  of  lovely  ladies. 
This  ballad  seemed  to  be  unfinished,  for  in  its  last 
stanza  the  writer  promised  to  utter  yet  more  words 
on  this  so  favorable  theme.  Now  when  I  had 
heard  of  this  poem  and  before  I  had  read  it — for 
Guido,  to  whom  the  first  copy  was  given,  loved  it  so 
much  and  lingered  so  long  upon  its  lines  that  he 
kept  it  an  unconscionable  time  from  his  fellows — 
I  bethought  me  that  I,  too,  would  write  me  a  set  of 
verses  on  the  brave  and  fair  ladies  of  Florence, 
and  that  in  doing  so  I  could  bring  in  the  name  of  the 
girl  of  my  heart. 

It  was  easy  enough  for  me  to  write  a  passable 

ring  of  rhymes  that  should  introduce  with  all  due 

form  and  honor  the  names  of  those  ladies  that  all 

in  that  time  agreed  to  be  most  eminent  for  their 

101 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

beauty  and  gentleness  in  the  beautiful  and  gentle 
city.  And  so  I  got  a  good  way  upon  my  work  with 
very  little  trouble  indeed,  for,  as  I  have  said,  rhymes 
always  came  easy  to  me  and  I  loved  to  juggle  with 
colored  words.  My  difficulty  came  with  the  mo- 
ment when  I  had  to  decide  upon  the  introduction 
of  my  own  heart's  desire. 

Now  about  this  time  of  the  year  when  I  began  my 
ballad,  I  was  myself  very  plenteously  and  merrily  in 
love  with  a  certain  lady  whose  name  I  will  here  set 
down  as  Ippolita,  for  that  was  what  I  called  her, 
seeing  in  her  a  kind  of  amazonian  carriage,  though 
that  was  not  the  name  she  was  known  by  among 
the  men  and  the  women,  her  neighbors.  She  had 
dark  eyes  whose  brightness  seemed  to  widen  and 
deepen  as  you  kissed  her  lips — and,  indeed,  the 
child  loved  to  be  kissed  exceedingly,  for  all  her 
quaint  air  of  woman-warrior — and  she  had  dark 
hair  that  when  you,  being  permitted  to  play  her 
lover,  uncoiled  it,  rolled  down  like  a  great  mane 
to  her  haunches,  and  her  face,  both  by  its  paleness 
and  by  the  perfection  of  its  featuring,  seemed  to  vie 
with  those  images  of  Greece  by  which  the  wise  set 
such  store.  To  judge  by  the  serenity  of  her  ex- 
pression, the  suavity  of  her  glances,  you  would  have 
sworn  by  all  the  saints  that  here  if  ever  was  an 
angel,  one  that  would  carry  the  calm  of  Diana  into 
every  action  of  life,  and  challenge  passion  with  a 
chastity  that  was  never  to  be  gainsaid.  But  he  that 


CONCERNING    POETRY 

ever  held  her  in  his  arms  found  that  the  so-seeming 
ice  was  fire,  under  those  snows  lava  bubbled,  and 
she  that  might  have  passed  for  a  priestess  of  Astarte 
quivered  with  frenzy  under  the  dominion  of  Eros. 
To  speak  only  for  myself,  I  found  her  a  very  phoenix 
of  sweethearts. 

She  was  married  to  a  tedious  old  Mumpsiman 
that  kept  himself  and  her  in  little  ease  by  plying  the 
trade  of  a  horse-leech,  which  trade,  for  the  girl's 
felicity,  held  him  much  abroad,  and  gave  her 
occasion,  seldom  by  her  neglected,  to  prove  to  her 
intimate  of  the  hour  that  there  can  be  fire  without 
smoke.  Now  I,  being  somewhat  top-heavy  at  this 
season  with  the  wine  of  so  fair  a  lady's  favors, 
thought  that  I  might,  with  no  small  advantage  to 
myself  and  no  small  satisfaction  to  my  mistress, 
set  me  to  doing  her  honor  with  some  such  tuneful 
words  as  the  unknown  singer  was  blowing  with 
such  sweet  breath  about  Florence  in  praise  of  his 
lady.  For  it  is  cheaper  to  please  a  woman  with 
a  sonnet  than  with  a  jewel,  and  as  my  Ippolita  was 
not  avaricious,  I  was  blithe  to  oblige  her  in  golden 
numbers  in  lieu  of  golden  pieces. 

Wherefore  I  set  my  wits  to  work  one  morning 
after  an  evening  of  delight,  and  found  the  muse 
complaisant.  My  fancy  spouted  like  a  fountain, 
the  rhymes  swam  in  the  water  like  gilded  or  silver 
fishes,  so  tame  you  had  but  to  dip  in  your  fingers 
and  take  your  pick,  while  allusion  and  simile 
103 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

crowded  so  thickly  about  me  that  I  should  have 
needed  an  epic  rather  than  my  legal  fourteen  lines 
to  make  use  of  the  half  of  them.  I  tell  you  I  was 
in  the  very  ecstasy  of  composition  that  lasted  me 
for  the  better  part  of  a  fortnight.  But  by  the  time 
that  I  had  come  to  this  point  the  pretty  Ippolita, 
whose  name  I  had  intended  to  place  there,  was  no 
longer  the  moment's  idol  of  my  soul,  and  between 
the  two  dainty  girls  that  had  succeeded  her  I  sat 
for  a  long  while  embarrassed,  like  the  schoolman's 
ass  between  the  two  bundles  of  hay,  not  knowing, 
as  it  were,  at  which  to  bite. 

At  last  I  bethought  me  that  the  best  way  out  of 
my  trouble  was  to  set  down  the  names  of  all  the 
sweet  women  whom  I  loved  or  had  loved,  and  to 
let  those  others  and  more  famous,  of  whom  I  knew 
nothing  save  by  sight  or  renown,  stand  to  one  side. 
So  it  came  to  pass  that  this  poem  of  mine  proved, 
at  the  last,  more  like  an  amorous  calendar  of  my 
own  life  than  a  hymn  in  praise  of  the  famous 
beauties  of  Florence.  For  with  famous  beauties  I 
have  never  at  any  time  had  much  to  do.  It  has 
always  been  my  desire  to  find  my  beauties  for  my- 
self, and  I  have  ever  found  that  there  is  a  greater 
reward  in  the  discovery  of  some  pretty  maid  and 
assuring  her  that  she  is  lovelier  than  Helen  of 
Troy  or  Semiramis  or  Cleopatra,  than  in  the  pay- 
ing of  one's  addresses  to  some  publicly  acclaimed 
loveliness. 

104 


CONCERNING    POETRY 

By  the  time  my  tale  of  verses  was  complete,  it 
was  as  different  as  it  might  be  from  that  which  it 
set  itself,  I  will  not  say  to  rival,  but  to  parody,  for 
it  contained  few  names  of  great  ladies  that  were 
upon  the  lips  of  every  Florentine,  but  sang  the 
praises  of  unknown  witches  and  minxes  that  were 
at  the  time  of  writing,  or  had  been,  very  dear  to 
me.  If  my  song  was  not  so  fine  a  piece  of  work 
as  that  of  Messer  Dante,  though  Messer  Dante  was 
at  that  time  only  in  the  earlier  flights  of  his  efforts, 
and  his  pinions  were,  as  yet,  unfamiliar  to  the 
poet's  ether,  it  was  perhaps  as  true  a  picture,  after 
its  fashion,  of  a  lover's  heart.  After  all,  it  must  be 
remembered  that  there  are  many  kinds  of  lovers' 
hearts,  and  that  those  who  can  understand  the 
"New  Life"  of  Messer  Dante's  are  very  few,  and 
fewer  still  those  that  can  live  that  life.  But  I  here 
protest  very  solemnly  that  it  was  with  no  thought 
of  scoff  or  mockery  that  I  made  my  ballad,  but 
just  for  the  sake  of  saying,  in  my  way,  the  things  I 
thought  about  the  pretty  women  that  pleased  me 
and  teased  me,  and  made  life  so  gay  and  fragrant 
and  variegated  in  those  far-away,  dearly  remem- 
bered, and  no  doubt  much-to-be-deplored  days. 

It  was  the  dreaming  of  this  ballad  of  mine  that 
led  me  to  think  of  Monna  Vittoria,  whom  you  will 
remember  if  you  bear  in  mind  the  beginning  of 
this,  my  history,  the  lady  that  Messer  Simone  of 
the  Bardi  was  whimsically  pledged  to  wed  if  he 
105 


THE    GOD   OF   LOVE 

failed  to  win  a  certain  wager  that  I  trust  you  have 
not  forgotten.  And  thinking  of  Monna  Vittoria 
led,  in  due  time,  to  a  meeting  with  Monna  Vittoria 
that  was  not  without  consequences. 

It  is  not  incurious,  when  you  come  to  reflect  upon 
it,  how  potent  the  influence  of  such  a  woman  as 
Vittoria  may  be  upon  the  lives  of  those  that  would 
seem  never  destined  by  Heaven  to  come  in  her  way. 
My  Dante  was  never  in  those  days  a  wooer  of  such 
ladies.  As  to  certain  things  that  are  said  of  him  later, 
in  the  hours  of  his  despair,  when  the  world  seemed 
no  better  than  an  empty  shell,  I  shall  have  some- 
what to  say,  perhaps,  by -and -by,  for  there  is  a 
matter  that  has  led  to  not  a  little  misunderstand- 
ing of  the  character  of  my  friend.  As  for  Madonna 
Beatrice,  she  that  was  such  a  flower  in  a  guarded 
garden,  why,  you  would  have  said  it  was  little  less 
than  incredible  that  the  clear  course  of  her  simple 
life  could  be  crossed  by  the  summer  lightning  of 
Madonna  Vittoria's  brilliant,  fitful  existence.  Yet, 
nevertheless,  from  first  to  last,  Madonna  Vittoria 
was  of  the  utmost  moment  in  the  lives  of  this  golden 
lass  and  lad,  and  this  much  must  be  admitted  in 
all  honesty:  that  she  never  did,  or  at  least  never 
sought  to  do,  other  than  good  to  either  of  them. 
I  should  not  like  to  say  that  she  would  have  troubled 
at  all  about  them  or  their  welfare  if  it  had  not 
served  her  turn  to  do  so.  But  whatever  the  reasons 
for  her  deeds,  let  us  be  grateful  that  their  results 
1 06 


CONCERNING   POETRY 

were  not  malefic  to  those  whose  interests  concern 
us  most.  If  Messer  Simone  had  never  made  his 
brutal  boast,  Madonna  Vittoria  would  never  have 
made  her  wild  wager.  But  having  made  it,  she 
was  eager  to  win  it  at  all  costs,  and  it  was  her  de- 
termination that  Simone  of  the  Bardi  should  never 
wed  with  Beatrice  of  the  Portinari,  that  led,  logically 
enough  if  you  do  but  consider  it  aright,  to  the  many 
strange  events  which  it  is  my  business  to  narrate. 


VIII 

MONNA    VITTORIA    SENDS   ME    A   MESSAGE 

MONNA  VITTORIA  dwelt  in  the  pleasantest 
part  of  the  country  outside  the  city,  in  a  quarter 
where  there  were  many  gardens  and  much  thickness 
of  trees  and  greenness  of  grass  and  coloring  of 
bright  flowers — all  pleasing  things,  that  made  an 
agreeable  background  to  her  beauty  when  she  went 
abroad  in  her  litter.  For,  indeed,  she  was  a  comely 
creature,  and  one  that  painters  would  pause  to 
look  at  and  to  praise,  as  well  as  others  that  eyed 
her  more  carnally  minded.  Now  I  myself  had  but 
a  slight  acquaintance,  albeit  a  pleasant  one,  with 
Vittoria.  This  was  partly  because  my  purse  was 
but  leanly  provided,  and  partly  because  I  had  ever 
in  mind  with  regard  to  such  creatures  the  wise 
saying  of  the  Athenian  concerning  the  girl  Lais, 
that  it  was  not  worth  while  to  spend  a  fortune  to 
gain  a  regret.  Moreover,  I  was  too  much  occupied 
with  my  own  very  agreeable  love-affairs,  that  were 
blended  with  poetry  and  dreams  and  such  like 
sweetnesses,  as  well  as  with  reality,  to  make  me  feel 
any  wish  for  more  extravagant  alliances.  But  I 
108 


VITTORIA   SENDS   ME   A   MESSAGE 

had  it  in  my  mind  now  that  it  might  be  a  good  thing 
for  me,  in  the  interests  of  my  poem  in  praise  of  fair 
Florentines,  to  pay  this  lady  a  visit,  and  I  hoped, 
being  a  poet,  though  I  trust  not  over  puffed  up 
with  my  own  pride  of  importance,  and  knowing 
that  she  was  always  fain  to  be  regarded  as  a  pa- 
troness of  the  arts,  that  I  might,  without  much 
difficulty,  gain  access  to  her. 

So  I  spent  a  careless  morning  on  a  hillside 
beyond  the  city  in  the  excellent  company  of  a  flask 
of  wine  and  a  handful  of  bread  and  cheese,  and 
there  I  sprawled  upon  my  back  among  the  daisies 
and  munched  and  sipped,  and  listened  to  the  bees, 
and  looked  upon  the  brown  roofs  of  beautiful 
Florence,  and  was  very  well  content.  And  when 
I  had  stayed  my  stomach  and  flung  the  crumbs  to 
the  birds,  and  had  emptied  the  better  part  of  my 
flagon,  I  stretched  myself  under  a  tree  like  a  man 
in  a  doze.  I  was  not  dozing,  however,  for  the 
flowers  and  the  verdure  about  me,  and  the  birds 
that  piped  overhead,  and  the  booming  bees,  and 
the  strong  sunlight  on  the  grass,  and  the  glimpses 
of  blue  sky  through  the  branches,  were  all  busying 
themselves  for  me  in  weaving  the  web  of  the  poem 
I  wanted  to  carry  home  with  me. 

As  I  shot  the  bright  verses  this  way  and  that  way, 

and  caught  with  a  childish  pleasure  at  the  shining 

rhymes  as  a  child  will  catch  at  some  glittering  toy, 

I  had  perforce  to  smile  as  I  reflected  on  what  a 

109 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

different  business  mine  was  to  that  of  the  unknown 
singer  of  those  days.  For  those  poems  of  his  that 
he  had  sent  to  Guido  and  to  others  were  exceeding 
beautiful,  and  full  of  a  very  noble  and  golden  ex- 
altation. I  think  if  the  angels  in  heaven  were  ever 
to  make  love  to  one  another  they  would  choose  for 
their  purpose  some  such  perfection  of  speech  as 
Dante — for  I  knew  the  singer  to  be  Dante  a  little 
later — found  for  his  sonnets  and  canzone.  For 
myself,  I  frankly  admit,  being  an  honest  man, 
that  I  could  not  write  such  sonnets  even  if  I  had 
my  Dante's  command  of  speech,  to  which  Heaven 
forbid  that  I  should  ever  pretend.  Those  rhymes 
of  his,  for  all  their  loveliness — and  when  I  say  that 
they  were  lovely  enough  to  be  worthy  of  the  lady 
to  whom  they  were  addressed,  I  give  them  the  highest 
praise  and  the  praise  that  Dante  would  most  have 
cared  to  accept — were  too  ethereal  for  my  work- 
aday humors.  I  liked  better  to  write  verses  to  the 
laughing,  facile  lasses  with  whom  my  way  of  life 
was  cast — jolly  girls  who  would  kiss  to-day  and  sigh 
to-morrow,  and  forget  all  about  you  the  third  day 
if  needs  were,  and  whom  it  was  as  easy  for  their 
lover  to  forget,  so  far  as  any  sense  of  pain  lay  in 
the  recollection  of  their  graces.  And  I  would  even 
rather  have  the  jolly  job  I  was  engaged  on  at  that 
moment  of  some  ripe,  rich-colored  verses  for  Vit- 
toria,  for  I  could,  in  writing  them,  be  as  human  as 
I  pleased  and  frankly  of  the  earth  earthly,  and  I 
no 


VITTORIA   SENDS    ME    A   MESSAGE 

needed  to  approach  my  quarry  with  no  tributes 
pilfered  from  the  armory  of  heaven.  I  could  praise 
her  beauty  with  the  tongue  of  men,  and  leave  the 
tongue  of  angels  out  of  the  question;  and  .if  my 
muse  were  pleased  here  and  there  to  take  a  wanton 
flutter,  I  knew  I  could  give  decorum  the  go-by 
with  a  light  heart. 

So  I  wallowed  at  my  ease  in  the  grasses  and  tossed 
verses  as  a  juggler  tosses  his  balls,  and  watched 
them  glitter  and  wink  as  they  rose  and  fell,  and  at 
last  I  shaped  to  my  own  satisfaction  what  I  believed 
to  be  an  exceedingly  pleasant  set  of  verses  that 
needed  no  more  than  to  be  engrossed  on  a  fair 
piece  of  sheepskin  and  tied  with  a  bright  ribbon 
and  sent  to  the  exquisite  frailty.  And  all  these 
things  I  did  in  due  course,  after  the  proper  period 
of  polishing  and  amending  and  straightening  out, 
until,  as  I  think,  there  never  was  a  set  of  rhymes 
more  carefully  fathered  and  mothered  into  the 
world.  And  here  is  the  sonnet: 


"There  is  a  lady  living  in  this  place 
That  wears  the  radiant  name  of  Victory; 
And  we  that  love  would  bid  her  wingless  be, 
Like  the  Athenian  image,  lest  her  grace, 
Lifting  a  siren's-tinted  pinions,  trace 
Its  glittering  course  across  the  Tyrrhene  sea 
To  some  more  favored  Cyprian  sanctuary, 
Leaving  us  lonely,  longing  for  her  face. 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

O  daughter  of  the  gods,  though  lovelier  lands, 
If  such  there  be,  entreat  you,  do  not  hear 
Their  whispering  voices,  heed  their  beckoning  hands; 
Have  only  eye  for  Florence,  only  ear 
For  Florentine  adorers,  while  their  cheer 
Between  your  fingers  spills  its  golden  sands." 

Now  this  sonnet  may  be  divided  into  four  parts. 
In  the  first  part,  I  make  my  statement  that  there  is 
a  lady  dwelling  in  Florence  whose  name  is  Vittoria. 
In  the  second  part,  I  allow  my  fancy  to  play  lightly 
with  the  suggestions  this  name  arouses  in  me,  and 
I  make  allusion  very  felicitously  to  the  famous 
statue  of  the  Wingless  Victory,  which  the  Athe- 
nians honored  in  Athens  so  very  specially  in  that, 
being  wingless,  it  could  not  fly  away  from  the  city. 
In  the  third  part,  I  express  my  alarm  lest  her 
loveliness  should  spread  its  vans  in  flight  and  leave 
us  lonely.  In  the  fourth,  I  entreat  her  to  pay  no 
heed  to  the  solicitations  of  others,  but  to  remain 
always  loyal  to  her  Florentine  lovers  so  long  as 
they  can  give  her  gifts.  The  second  part  begins 
here:  "And  we  that  love."  The  third  begins,  "Lest 
her  grace."  The  fourth  part  begins,  "O  daughter 
of  the  gods." 

That  simile  of  the  Wingless  Victory  tickled  me 
so  mightily  that  I  was  in  a  very  good  conceit  with 
myself,  and  if  I  read  over  my  precious  sonnet  once, 
I  suppose  I  read  it  over  a  score  of  times;  and  even 
now,  at  this  distance  of  days,  I  am  inclined  to  pat 
112 


VITTORIA   SENDS   ME   A   MESSAGE 

myself  upon  the  back  and  to  call  myself  ear-pleasing 
names  for  the  sake  of  my  handiwork.  Of  course  I 
am  ready  to  admit  quite  frankly  that  most,  if  not 
all,  of  Dante's  sonnets  are  better,  taking  them  all 
round,  than  my  modest  enterprises.  But  there  is 
room,  as  I  hope,  for  many  kinds  of  music-makers 
in  the  fields  about  Parnassus.  I  know  Messer 
Guido  spoke  very  pleasantly  of  my  sonnets,  and  so 
I  make  no  doubt  would  Dante  have,  but  somehow 
or  other  I  never  showed  them  to  him. 

Now,  when  I  had  scrolled  my  rhymes  precisely, 
I  had  them  dispatched  to  Monna  Vittoria  by  a  sure 
hand,  and,  as  is  my  way,  having  done  what  I  had 
to  do,  thought  no  more  about  the  matter  for  the 
time  being.  It  was  ever  a  habit  of  mine  not  merely 
to  let  the  dead  day  bury  its  dead,  but  to  let  the 
dead  hour,  and,  if  possible,  the  dead  minute  and 
dead  second  bury  their  dead,  and  to  think  no  more 
upon  any  matter  than  is  essential.  I  think  the  sum 
of  all  wise  living  is  to  be  merry  as  often  as  one  can, 
and  sad  as  seldom  as  one  can,  and  never  to  fret 
over  what  is  unavoidable,  or  to  be  pensive  over 
what  is  past,  but  to  be  wise  for  the  time.  So  I 
remember  that  days  not  a  few  drifted  by  after  I 
had  sent  my  rhymes  and  my  request  to  Monna 
Vittoria,  and  I  was  very  busy  just  then  paying 
my  court  to  three  of  the  prettiest  girls  I  had  ever 
known,  and  I  almost  forgot  my  poem  and  Monna 
Vittoria  altogether. 

"3 


THE   GOD   OF    LOVE 

But  I  recall  a  grayish  morning  along  Arno  and 
a  meeting  with  Messer  Guido,  and  his  taking  me 
on  one  side  and  standing  under  an  archway  while 
he  read  me  a  sonnet  that  the  unknown  poe^  had 
composed  in  illustration  of  his  passion  for  his  name- 
less lady,  and  had  sent  to  Messer  Guido.  It  was  a 
very  beautiful  sonnet,  as  I  remember,  and  I  recall 
very  keenly  wishing  for  an  instant  that  I  could 
write  such  words  and,  above  all,  that  I  could  think 
such  thoughts.  I  think  I  have  already  set  it  down 
that  love  has  always  been  a  very  practical  business 
with  me.  If  one  girl  is  not  at  hand,  another  will 
serve,  and  the  moon-flower,  sunflower  manner  of 
worship  was  never  my  way.  But  if  one  must  love 
like  that,  making  love  rather  a  candle  on  God's 
altar  than  a  torch  in  Venus  her  temple,  there  is 
no  man  ever  since  the  world  began,  nor  will,  I  think, 
ever  be  till  the  world  shall  end,  to  do  so  better  than 
Messer  Dante.  When  I  had  done  reading  the 
sonnet,  and  had  parted  from  friend  Guido,  I  found 
myself  in  the  mood  that  this  then  unknown  poet's 
verses  always  swung  me  into,  of  wonder  and  trouble, 
as  of  one  who,  having  drunk  over-much  of  a 
heady  and  insidious  wine,  finds  himself  thinking 
unfamiliar  thoughts  and  seeing  familiar  things  un- 
familiarly.  While  I  was  thus  mazed  and  arguing 
with  myself  as  to  whether  I  were  right  and  this  poet 
wrong  or  this  poet  right  and  I  wrong  in  our  view 
of  love  and  women,  I  was  accosted  in  the  plain 
114 


VITTORIA  SENDS   ME   A   MESSAGE 

highway  by  a  dapper  little  brat  of  a  page  that  wore 
a  very  flamboyant  livery,  and  that  carried  a  letter 
in  his  hand.  And  the  page  questioned  me  with  a 
grin  and  asked  me  if  I  were  Messer  Lappo  Lappi, 
arid  I,  being  so  bewildered  with  the  burden  of  my 
warring  thoughts,  was  half  of  a  mind  to  answer  that 
I  was  no  such  man,  but  luckily  recalled  myself  and 
walked  the  sober  earth  again  soberly.  I  assured 
him  that  I  was  none  other  than  poor  Lappo  Lappi, 
and  I  pinched  a  silver  coin  from  my  pocket  and  gave 
it  to  him,  and  he  handed  me  the  missive  and  grinned 
again,  and  whistled  and  slipped  away  from  me  along 
the  street,  a  diminished  imp  of  twinkling  gilt.  And 
I  opened  the  letter  then  and  there,  and  read  in  it 
that  Monna  Vittoria  very  gracefully  gave  me  her 
duty,  and  in  all  humility  thanked  me  for  my  verses 
— Lord,  as  if  that  ample  baggage  could  ever  be 
humble! — and  would  be  flattered  beyond  praise  if 
my  dignity  would  honor  her  with  my  presence  on 
such  a  day  at  such  an  hour.  And  I  was  very  well 
pleased  with  this  missive,  and  was  very  careful  to 
obey  its  commands. 

The  house  where  Monna  Vittoria  dwelt  was  a 
marvel  of  beauty,  like  its  mistress — a  fair  frame  for 
a  fair  portrait.  It  seemed  to  have  laid  all  the 
kingdoms  of  earth  under  tribute,  for,  indeed,  the 
lady's  friends  were  mainly  men  of  wealth,  cardinals 
and  princes  and  great  captains,  that  were  ever 
ready  to  give  her  the  best  they  had  to  give  for  the 
"5 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

honor  of  her  acquaintance.  Her  rooms  were  rich 
with  statues  of  marble  and  statues  of  bronze,  and 
figures  in  ivory  and  figures  in  silver,  and  with  gold 
vessels,  and  cabinets  of  ebony  and  other  costly 
woods;  and  pictures  by  Byzantine  painters  hung 
upon  her  walls,  and  her  rooms  were  rich  with  all 
manner  of  costly  stuffs  and  furs.  He  that  was 
favored  to  have  audience  with  Monna  Vittoria 
went  to  her  as  through  a  dream  of  loveliness,  mar- 
velling at  the  many  splendid  things  that  surrounded 
her:  at  the  fountain  in  her  court-yard,  where  the 
goldfish  gambolled,  and  where  a  Triton  that  came 
from  an  old  Roman  villa  spouted;  at  her  corridors, 
lined  with  delicately  tinted  majolica  that  seemed 
cool  and  clean  as  ice  in  those  summer  heats;  at  her 
antechambers,  that  glowed  with  color  and  swooned 
with  sweet  odors;  and,  finally,  at  her  own  apart- 
ments, where  she  that  was  lady  of  all  this  beauty 
seemed  so  much  more  beautiful  than  it  all. 

Madonna  Vittoria  would  have  looked  queenly  in 
a  cottage;  in  the  midst  of  her  gorgeous  surround- 
ings she  showed  more  than  imperial,  and  she  knew 
the  value  of  such  trappings  and  made  the  most  of 
them  to  dazzle  her  admirers,  for  her  admirers,  as 
I  have  said,  were  all  great  lords  that  were  used  to 
handsome  dwellings  and  sumptuous  appointments 
and  costly  adornings,  but  there  was  never  one  of 
them  that  seemed  to  dwell  so  splendidly  as  Monna 
Vittoria. 

116 


VITTORIA   SENDS   ME   A   MESSAGE 

Now  I,  that  came  to  her  with  nothing  save  such 
credit  as  I  might  hope  to  have  for  the  sake  of  my 
verses,  could  look  at  all  this  magnificence  with  an 
indifferent  eye.  Yet  I  will  confess  that  as  I  moved 
through  so  much  sumptuousness,  and  breathed  such 
strangely  scented  air,  I  was  stirred  all  of  a  sudden 
with  strange  and  base  envy  of  those  great  person- 
ages for  whom  this  brave  show  was  spread,  and 
found  myself  wishing  unwittingly  that  I  were  some 
great  prince  of  the  Church  or  adventurous  free-com- 
panion who  might  not,  indeed,  command — for  there 
were  none  who  could  do  that — but  hope  for  the 
lady's  kindness.  Although  I  assured  myself  lustily 
that  a  poet  was  as  good  as  a  prince,  in  my  heart, 
and  in  the  presence  of  all  this  luxury,  I  knew  very 
dismally  that  it  was  not  so,  and  that  Monna  Vittoria 
would  never  be  persuaded  to  think  so.  As  I  have 
already  said,  I  had  no  great  yearning  for  these 
magnificent  mercenaries  of  the  hosts  of  Love,  for 
these  bejewelled  amazons  that  seemed  made  merely 
to  prove  to  man  that  he  is  no  better  than  an  unutter- 
able ass.  My  pulses  never  thrilled  tumultuously 
after  her  kind,  and  in  the  free  air  of  the  fields  I 
would  not  have  changed  one  of  my  pretty  sweet- 
hearts against  Monna  Vittoria.  But  somehow  in 
that  fantastic  palace  of  hers,  with  its  enchanted 
atmosphere  and  its  opulent  surroundings,  my 
cool  reason  of  the  meadows  and  the  open  air 
seemed  at  a  loss,  and  I  found  myself  ready,  as  it 
117 


THE   GOD    OF   LOVE 

were,  to  surrender  to  Circe  like   any  hog  pig  of 
them  all. 

If  this  were  the  time  and  the  place,  I  should  like 
to  try  to  find  out,  by  the  light  of  a  dry  logic,  and 
with  the  aid  of  a  cold  process  of  analysis,  why  these 
Timandras  and  Phrynes  have  so  much  power  over 
men.  Perhaps,  as  I  am  speaking  of  Monna  Vit- 
toria,  I  should  add  the  Aspasias  to  my  short  cata- 
logue of  she-gallants,  for  Vittoria  was  a  woman 
well  accomplished  in  the  arts,  well-lettered,  speak- 
ing several  tongues  with  ease,  well-read,  too,  and 
one  that  could  talk  to  her  lovers,  when  they  had  the 
time  or  the  inclination  for  talking,  of  the  ancient 
authors  of  Rome,  and  of  Greece,  too,  for  that  mat- 
ter— did  I  not  say  her  mother  was  a  Greek  ? — and 
could  say  you  or  sing  you  the  stanzas  of  mellifluous 
poets,  most  ravishingly  to  the  ear.  She  knew  all 
the  verses  of  Guido  Guinicelli  by  root  of  heart,  and 
to  hear  her  repeat  that  poem  of  his  beginning, 

"Love  ever  dwells  within  the  gentle  heart," 

what  time  she  touched  a  lute  to  soft  notes  of  com- 
plaining and  praise  and  patience  and  desire,  was  to 
make,  for  the  moment,  even  the  most  obdurate 
understand  her  charm.  But  if  I  at  all  seem  to 
disfavor  her,  it  may  be  because  she  was  too  costly 
a  toy  for  such  as  I,  save,  indeed,  when  she  con- 
descended to  do  a  grace,  for  kindness'  sake,  to  one 
118 


VITTORIA   SENDS   ME   A   MESSAGE 

whose  revenues  were  of  small  estate.  It  is  plain 
that  such  ladies  have  their  fascination,  and  in  a 
measure  I  admit  it,  but,  day  in  and  day  out,  I  prefer 
my  jolly  dollimops.  This  has  ever  been  my  opin- 
ion and  always  will  be,  and  I  think  those  are  the 
likelier  to  go  happy  that  think  like  me. 


IX 

MADONNA    VITTORIA    SOUNDS    A   WARNING 

MADONNA  VITTORIA  received  me  so  very 
graciously  that  for  a  while  I  began  to  think 
no  little  good  of  myself,  and  to  reconsider  my  latest 
opinion  as  to  the  value  of  poets  and  poetry  in  the 
eyes  of  such  ladies.  But  this  mood  of  self-esteem 
was  not  fated  to  be  of  long  duration.  After  some 
gracious  words  of  praise  for  my  verses,  which  made 
me  pleased  to  find  her  so  wise  in  judgment,  she 
came  very  swiftly  to  the  purpose  for  which  she  had 
summoned  me,  and  that  purpose  was  not  at  all  to 
share  in  the  delight  of  my  society. 

"Are  you  not  a  friend,"  she  said,  very  gravely, 
"of  young  Dante  of  the  Alighieri  ?" 

I  made  answer  that  for  my  own  poor  part  I 
counted  myself  his  very  dear  and  devoted  friend, 
and  that  I  had  reason  to  believe  that  he  held  me  in 
some  affection.  I  was  not  a  little  surprised  at  this 
sudden  introduction  of  Messer  Dante  into  our  con- 
versation, and  began  to  wonder  if  by  any  chance 
Monna  Vittoria  had  taken  a  fancy  to  him.  Such 
women  have  such  whims  at  times.  However,  I 
was  not  long  left  in  doubt  as  to  her  meaning. 
120 


V1TTORIA   SOUNDS   A   WARNING 

"If  you  are  a  true  friend  to  him,"  she  said,  "you 
would  do  well  to  counsel  him  to  go  warily  and  to 
have  a  care  of  Messer  Simone  of  the  Bardi,  for  I 
I  am  very  sure  that  he  means  to  do  him  a  mischief 
when  time  shall  serve." 

Now  I  had  seen  nothing  of  Dante  since  that  day 
of  the  little  bicker  with  Simone,  long  weeks  earlier, 
but  as  I  had  heard  by  chance  that  he  was  busy  with 
the  practice  of  sword-craft,  I  took  it  for  granted 
that  he  was  thus  keeping  his  promise  to  a  certain 
lady,  and  was  by  no  means  distressed  at  his  ab- 
sence. As  for  Messer  Simone,  he  went  his  ways  in 
Florence  as  truculently  as  ever,  and  I  hoped  he 
would  be  willing  to  let  bygones  be  bygones. 

"Does  he  still  bear  such  a  grudge  for  a  single 
rose-blossom  ?"  I  asked.  And  it  seemed  to  me  that 
it  was  scarcely  in  reason  to  be  so  pettily  revengeful 
toward  a  youth  that  had  carried  himself  so  valiantly 
and  so  cunningly  in  the  countenance  of  a  great 
danger. 

Monna  Vittoria  answered  me  very  swiftly  and 
decidedly.  "Messer  Simone  has  a  little  mind  in 
his  big  body,  and  little  minds  cling  to  trifles.  But 
it  is  not  the  matter  of  the  rose  alone  that  chokes 
him,  but  chiefly  the  matter  of  the  poems." 

I  stared  at  Monna  Vittoria  with  round  eyes  of 
wonder.  "What  poems?"  I  asked;  for,  indeed,  I 
did  not  understand  her  drift. 

She  frowned  a  little  in  impatience  at  my  slow- 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

ness.  "Why,  surely,"  she  said,  "those  poems  that 
Messer  Dante  has  written  in  praise  of  Beatrice 
of  the  Portinari,  and  in  declaration  of  his  service 
to  her.  Have  you  not  seen  them  ?  Have  you  not 
heard  of  them  ?  Do  you  not,  who  are  his  friend, 
know  that  they  were  written  by  young  Dante  ?" 

Now,  indeed,  I  knew  nothing  of  the  kind,  and  I 
could  not,  in  reviewing  the  matter,  blame  myself 
very  greatly  for  my  lack  of  knowledge.  Who  could 
guess  that  a  scholarly  youth  who  was  now  very 
suddenly  and  wholly,  as  I  had  heard,  addicted  to 
martial  exercises,  should,  in  a  twinkling  and  without 
the  least  warning,  prove  the  peer  of  the  practised 
poets  of  Florence  ?  Nor  was  there  in  the  poems 
that  I  had  seen  any  plain  hint  given  that  the  lady 
they  praised  was  Madonna  Beatrice. 

"Are  you  very  sure  ?"  I  asked.  And  yet  even  as  I 
asked  I  felt  that  it  must  be  so,  and  that  I  ought, 
by  rights,  to  have  known  it  before,  for  all  that  it 
was  so  very  surprising.  For  when  a  man  is  in  love 
and  has  anything  of  the  poet  in  him,  that  poet  is 
like  to  leap  into  life  fully  armed  with  equipment  of 
songs  and  sonnets,  as  Minerva,  on  a  memorable 
occasion,  made  her  all-armored  ascent  from  the 
riven  brows  of  Jove. 

The  lady  was  very  scornful  of  my  thick-headed- 
ness,  and  was  at  no  pains  to  conceal  her  scorn,  for 
all  that  I  had  written  her  so  honorable  a  copy  of 
verses. 

122 


VITTORIA   SOUNDS   A    WARNING 

"Am  I  sure?  How  could  I  be  other  than  sure  ? 
Why,  on  that  day  when  Madonna  Beatrice  flung 
your  Dante  the  rose  from  her  nosegay,  I  knew  by 
the  look  in  the  lad's  face  that  he  no  less  than  wor- 
shipped her.  Was  I  not  standing  in  the  press  ? 
Did  I  not  see  all,  even  to  the  humiliation  of  Simone  ? 
It  needed  no  very  keen  vision  to  divine  the  beginning 
of  many  things,  love  and  hate  and  grave  adventures. 
So  when  a  new  and  nameless  poet  filled  the  air  of 
Florence  with  his  sweetness  it  did  not  take  me  long 
to  spell  the  letters  of  his  name." 

I  felt,  as  I  listened,  very  sure  that  it  ought  not 
to  have  taken  me  long  either,  and  the  thought 
made  me  penitent,  and  I  was  about  to  attempt 
apologies  for  my  folly  when  Madonna  Vittoria  cut 
me  short  with  new  words. 

"It  mattered  little,"  she  went  on,  "for  me  to  guess 
the  secret  of  the  new  poet's  mystery,  but  it  mattered 
much  that  Simone  should  guess  it.  Yet  he  did  guess 
it.  For  my  Simone,  that  should  be  and  shall  be 
mine,  though  he  knows  nothing  and  cares  nothing 
for  poetry,  guessed  with  the  crude  instinct  of  brut- 
ish jealousy  the  authorship  that  has  puzzled  Flor- 
ence." 

I  felt  and  looked  disturbed  at  these  tidings,  and 
I  besought  Monna  Vittoria  to  give  me  the  aid  of  her 
counsel  in  this  business,  as  to  what  were  best  to 
do  and  what  not  to  do.  And  Madonna  Vittoria 
very  earnestly  warned  me  not  to  make  light  of 
9  123 


THE   GOD   OF    LOVE 

Messer  Simone's  anger,  nor  to  doubt  that  my  Dante 
was  in  danger. 

"It  were  very  well,"  she  said,  after  a  few  mo- 
ments of  silent  thoughtfulness,  "if  Messer  Dante 
could  be  persuaded  to  pay  some  kind  of  public 
addresses  to  some  other  lady,  so  as  to  divert  the 
suspicions  of  Messer  Simone.  Let  him  show  me 
some  attention;  let  him  haunt  my  house  awhile. 
Messer  Simone  will  not  be  jealous  of  me,  now  that 
he  is  in  this  marry  mood  of  his." 

I  have  sometimes  wondered  since  if  Madonna 
Vittoria,  in  her  willingness  to  help  Dante,  was  not 
also  more  than  a  little  willing  to  please  herself  with 
the  society  of  one  that  could  write  such  incompar- 
able love-verses.  Whatever  the  reason  for  it  might 
be,  I  found  her  idea  ingenious  and  commended  it 
heartily,  but  Madonna  Vittoria,  that  seemed  in- 
different to  my  approval,  interrupted  the  full  flood 
of  my  eloquence  with  a  lifted  hand  and  lifted 
eyebrows. 

"I  know  your  Dante  too  well,"  she  said,  "though 
I  know  him  but  little,  to  think  that  he  will  be  per- 
suaded to  any  course  in  order  to  avoid  the  anger  of 
Messer  Simone." 

I  knew  that  this  was  true  as  soon  as  Madonna 
Vittoria  had  said  it,  and  I  admired  the  insight  of 
women  by  which  they  are  so  skilled  to  distinguish 
one  man  from  another,  even  when  they  have  seen 
very  little  of  the  man  that  happens  to  interest  them. 
124 


VITTORIA  SOUNDS  A   WARNING 

I  may  honestly  confess  that  if  the  case  had  been 
my  case,  I  would  cheerfully  have  availed  myself 
of  Monna  Vittoria's  suggestion  and  seemed  to  woo 
her — though,  indeed,  I  could  have  done  it  very 
readily  with  no  seeming  in  the  matter — that  I  might 
avoid  the  inimical  suspicions  of  Messer  Simone  or 
his  like.  Not,  you  must  understand,  that  in  the 
heart  of  my  heart  I  was  so  sore  afraid  of  Messer 
Simone  or  of  another  man  as  to  descend  to  any 
baseness  to  avoid  his  rage,  but  just  that  there  was 
in  me  the  mischievous  spirit  of  intrigue  which  ever 
takes  delight  in  disguisings  and  concealments  and 
mysteries  of  all  kinds.  But  I  knew  when  Madonna 
Vittoria  had  said  it,  and  might  have  known  before 
Madonna  Vittoria  had  said  it,  if  I  had  reflected  for 
an  instant,  that  my  Dante  was  not  of  this  inclina- 
tion and  must  walk  his  straight  path  steadfastly. 
Wherefore,  I  felt  at  a  loss  and  looked  it,  staring  at 
Monna  Vittoria. 

"Messer  Dante,"  she  went  on,  "must  do  this 
thing  that  I  would  have  him  do,  not  for  any  care  or 
safety  of  his  own,  but  for  the  sake  and  for  the 
safety  and  the  ease  and  peace  of  mind  of  Madonna 
Beatrice.  If  it  gets  to  be  blown  about  the  city  that 
the  lad  Dante  of  the  Alighieri  is  madly  in  love 
with  her,  and  can  find  no  other  occupation  for  his 
leisure  than  the  writing  in  her  praise  of  amorous 
canzonets,  not  only  will  Messer  Simone,  her  suitor, 
be  fretted,  but  also  Messer  Folco,  her  father,  be  vexed, 
125 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

neither  of  which  things  can  in  any  way  conduce  to 
her  happiness.  Let  Messer  Dante,  therefore,  for 
his  love's  sake,  be  persuaded  to  wear  the  show  of 
affection  for  some  other  lady,  and  as  there  is  already 
nothing  in  the  wording  of  his  verses  to  betray  the 
name  of  the  lady  he  serves,  let  him  by  his  public 
carriage  and  demeanor  make  it  seem  as  if  his  heart 
and  brain  were  bestowed  on  some  other,  such  an- 
other even  as  myself." 

Here,  for  an  instant,  Madonna  Vittoria  paused  to 
take  breath,  and  I  nodded  approval,  and  would 
have  spoken,  but  she  was  too  quick  for  me. 

"Get  him  to  do  this,"  she  said,  earnestly.  "Let 
him  be  made  very  sure  that  I  thoroughly  know  that 
he  does  not  care  and  never  could  care  two  fig-pips 
for  me,  and  tell  him,  if  you  like,  that  I  could  never 
waste  a  smile  or  sigh  on  the  effort  to  make  his  sour 
face  look  sweet.  Besides,  I  am  not  urging  this  to 
serve  him,  but  to  help  myself,  for  I  do  not  wish 
Messer  Simone  to  marry  Madonna  Beatrice,  the 
which  thing  is  the  more  likely  to  happen  if  Messer 
Folco  has  any  hint  of  sweethearting  between  his 
magnificence's  daughter  and  an  insignificant  boy." 

What  Madonna  Vittoria  said  was  splendid  sense, 
and  I  applauded  it  lustily,  and  made  her  my  vows 
that  it  should  be  my  business  to  seek  out  my  Dante 
and  bring  him  to  her  thinking.  And  then  we  passed 
from  that  matter  to  talk  of  love-poems,  and  from 
love-poems  to  lovers,  and  from  lovers  to  the  art  of 
126 


VITTORIA   SOUNDS   A    WARNING 

love.  I  would  not  for  all  the  world  seem  indiscreet, 
so  I  will  say  no  more  than  that  it  was  a  very  pleas- 
ant afternoon  which  I  passed  in  that  fair  lady's 
society,  the  memory  of  which  I  treasure  very  pre- 
ciously in  the  jewel-casket  of  my  tenderest  recol- 
lections. 

But  when  the  time  came  for  me  to  bid  her  farewell 
she  renewed  again  and  very  insistently  her  warn- 
ing that  Simone  of  the  Bardi  meant  mischief  to 
Dante  of  the  Alighieri,  and  her  counsel  that  young 
Dante  should  be  persuaded,  for  his  dear  lady's  sake, 
to  fob  off  suspicion  by  feigning  an  affection  which 
indeed  had  no  place  in  his  bosom.  To  this,  as  be- 
fore, I  agreed  very  heartily,  and  so  took  my  leave 
of  a  very  winsome  and  delicious  creature,  and  went 
my  ways  wishing  with  all  my  heart  that  it  might 
be  my  privilege  to  woo  such  a  lady  daily,  either  for 
my  own  safety  or  the  safety  of  another.  Which 
shows  that  the  fates  are  very  fantastical  in  their 
favors,  for  this  exquisite  occasion  of  felicity  was 
offered,  not  to  me  who  would  have  appreciated  it 
at  its  right  value,  but  to  Messer  Dante,  who  would 
not  value  it  at  the  worth  of  a  single  pomegranate 
seed. 

But,  however  that  may  be,  I  did  as  the  lady  bade 
me,  and  I  sought  out  Messer  Dante  and  found  him, 
and  gave  him  the  sum  of  Madonna  Vittoria's  dis- 
course, urging  him  to  do  as  she  counselled.  In 
doing  this  I  spoke  not  at  all  of  the  danger  there 
127 


THE    GOD   OF    LOVE 

might  be  to  my  friend  from  the  rage  of  Messer 
Simone,  but  solely  of  the  need  for  every  true  and 
humble  lover  to  keep  his  love  and  service  secret 
enough  to  avoid  either  care  or  offence  to  his  lady. 
To  all  of  which  wisdom  Messer  Dante  agreed  very 
readily,  being,  indeed,  over-willing  to  reproach 
himself  for  heedlessness  in  the  matter  of  his  verses, 
though,  indeed,  he  named  no  name  in  them  and 
kept  himself  as  close  and  invisible  as  a  cuckoo. 
And  I  promised  and  vowed  to  tell  no  man  nor  no 
woman  the  secret  of  the  authorship  of  the  verses 
that  Florence  was  beginning  to  love  so  well. 

I  kept  my  word  as  to  this  promise,  and  the  time 
was  not  yet  before  other  than  Monna  Vittoria  and 
myself  and  Messer  Simone  knew  the  secret.  Dante 
kept  his  word  to  me  and  followed  Madonna  Vit- 
toria's  advice,  and  showed  himself  attentive  in  her 
company  time  and  again,  and  was  seen  on  occasion 
going  to  or  coming  from  her  house.  Which  con- 
duct on  his  part,  for  all  that  it  was  intended  for  the 
best,  did  not,  as  so  often  happens  with  the  devices 
of  human  cunning,  have  the  best  result.  For  of 
course,  in  a  city  like  Florence,  where  gossip  is  blown 
abroad  like  thistle-seed,  it  came  soon  enough  to  the 
ears  of  Madonna  Beatrice  that  young  Messer  Dante 
of  the  Alighieri  was  believed  by  many  to  be  a  lover 
of  Madonna  Vittoria.  Now,  Madonna  Beatrice 
knew  nothing  of  Dante's  wonder- verses  in  her  honor, 
nor  of  Dante's  way  of  life  since  the  day  of  their 
128 


VITTORIA   SOUNDS   A   WARNING 

meeting  in  Santa  Felicita,  for  Dante  was  resolved 
not  to  bring  himself  again  to  her  notice  until  he 
considered  himself  in  some  degree  more  worthy  to 
do  so.  Therefore,  Madonna  Beatrice  was  little 
pleased  by  the  talk  that  coupled  the  name  of  Vit- 
toria  with  his  name  to  whom  she  had  given  the 
rose.  So  it  chanced  that  one  day  when  she  with 
her  companions  met  Dante  in  the  street,  she  re- 
fused him  her  salutation,  whereat  my  poor  Dante 
was  plunged  in  a  very  purgatory  of  woe. 

Of  course,  he  had  no  knowledge  of  how  he  had 
offended  his  sweet  lady,  for  it  was  no  great  wonder 
if  a  youth  of  his  age  were  to  be  friends  with  Madonna 
Vittoria,  as  many  of  the  youths  of  the  city  were 
friends.  Besides,  his  own  consciousness  that  his 
friendship  with  the  woman  was  no  more  than 
friendship — and  indeed  would  have  been  no  more 
for  him,  in  those  ecstatic  hours,  had  she  been  the 
goddess  Venus  herself — caused  him  to  look  at  the 
matter  very  indifferently,  regarding  it  as  no  more 
than  a  convenient  cloak  to  screen  from  the  prying 
curiosity  of  the  world  his  high  passion  for  Madonna 
Beatrice.  But  I,  that  was  more  in  the  way  of  girl- 
gossips  than  Dante,  got  in  time  to  know  the  truth 
of  the  reason  why  the  lady  Beatrice  had  refused 
her  salutation  to  my  friend,  and  I  began  to  see  that 
Madonna  Vittoria's  counsel  might  well  prove  more 
mischievous  than  serviceable  in  the  end. 

However,  I  had  no  more  to  do  than  to  communi- 
129 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

cate  to  Dante  the  reason  that  I  had  discovered  for 
his  dear  idol's  lack  of  greeting,  and  at  the  news 
of  it  he  was  cast  into  a  great  gloom  and  remained 
disconsolate  for  a  long  while.  And  I  urged  him 
that  he  should  let  Madonna  Beatrice  know  what 
he  had  done  and  why,  but  he  would  not  hear  of 
this,  saying  that  he  would  never  seek  to  win  either 
her  favor  or  her  pity  so,  by  trading  on  any  service 
he  might  seem  to  do  her.  He  added  that  he  hoped 
in  God's  good  time  to  set  himself  right  with  her 
again,  when  he  was  more  worthy  to  approach  her. 
All  of  which  was  very  beautiful  and  devoted  and 
noble,  but  not  at  all  sensible,  according  to  my  way 
of  doing  or  my  way  of  thinking. 

Anyway,  Messer  Dante  would  go  to  visit  Ma- 
donna Vittoria  no  more,  and  she  wondered  at  his 
absence  and  sent  for  me  and  questioned  me,  and  I 
told  her  the  truth,  how  following  her  advice  had 
brought  Dante  into  disgrace  with  his  lady.  Then 
Vittoria  seemed  indeed  grieved,  and  she  commended 
Dante  for  keeping  away  from  her,  and  vowed  that 
he  should  be  set  right  some  way  or  other  in  the 
eyes  of  his  lady.  Indeed,  it  was  a  pleasure  and  a 
marvel  that  Madonna  Vittoria  could  show  such 
zeal  and  heat  for  so  simple  a  love-business  as  this 
of  the  boy  of  the  Alighieri  and  the  girl  of  the  Porti- 


THE    DEVILS    OF   AREZZO 

NOW,  the  next  page  in  the  book  of  my  memory 
that  is  concerned  with  the  fortunes  of  my 
friend  has  to  do  with  the  feast  that  Messer  Folco 
Portinari  gave  to  the  magnificoes  and  dignitaries, 
the  notables  and  worthies,  the  graces  and  the 
radiancies  of  Florence — a  feast  that,  memorable  in 
itself,  was  yet  more  memorable  from  all  that  came 
of  it  by  what  we  in  our  wisdom  or  our  ignorance 
call  chance.  It  was  a  very  proper,  noble,  and  glori- 
ous festival,  and  I  am  almost  as  keen  to  attend  it 
again  in  my  memory  as  I  was  keen  to  be  present  at 
it  in  the  days  when  Time  and  I  were  boys  together. 
Yet  for  all  my  impatience  I  think  it  good  before  I 
treat  of  it  and  of  its  happenings  to  set  down  in  brief 
certain  conditions  that  then  prevailed  in  Florence 
— conditions  which  had  their  influence  in  making 
Messer  Folco's  festival  memorable  to  so  many 
lives. 

You  must  know  that  at  this  time  the  all-wise  and 
all-powerful  Republic  of  Florence  was  not  a  little 
harassed  in  its  peace  and  its  comfort,  if  not  in  its 


THE    GOD   OF    LOVE 

wisdom  and  its  power,  by  the  unneighborly  and 
unmannerly  conduct  of  the  people  of  Arezzo. 
These  intolerant  and  intolerable  folk  were  not  only 
so  purblind  and  thick-witted  as  not  to  realize  the 
immeasurable  supremacy  of  the  city  of  Florence 
for  learning,  statesmanship,  and  bravery  over  all  the 
other  cities  of  Italy  put  together,  but  had  carried 
the  bad  taste  of  their  opinions  into  the  still  worse 
taste  of  offensive  action.  For  a  long  time  past 
Arezzo  had  pitted  itself  in  covert  snares  and  small 
enterprises  against  the  integrity  and  well-being  of 
the  Republic.  Were  Florence  in  any  political  dif- 
ficulty or  commercial  crisis,  then  surely  were  the 
busy  ringers — ah,  and  even  the  busy  thumbs  and 
the  whole  busy  hands — of  the  people  in  Arezzo  sure 
to  be  thrust  into  the  pie  with  the  ignoble  object  of 
plucking  out  for  their  own  advantage  such  plums  as 
they  could  secure.  Florentine  convoys  were  never 
safe  from  attack  on  the  highroads  that  neighbored 
the  Aretine  dominion,  and  if  any  brawl  broke  out 
between  Florence  and  one  of  her  neighbors,  a  brawl 
never  provoked  by  Florence,  too  magnanimous  for 
such  petty  dealings,  but  always  inaugurated  by  the 
cupidity  or  the  treachery  of  her  enemies,  the  Are- 
tines  were  sure  to  be  found  taking  part  in  it,  either 
openly  or  secretly,  to  the  disadvantage  and  detri- 
ment of  the  noble  city. 

Now,  this  state  of  things  had  endured  long  enough 
in  the  minds  of  most  good  citizens,  and  it  was  felt 
132 


THE    DEVILS    OF   AREZZO 

that  the  patience  of  Florence  had  been  over-abused 
and  her  good  nature  too  shamelessly  counted  upon, 
and  that  it  was  time  to  teach  these  devils  of  Arezzo 
a  lesson  in  civility  and  fair  fellowship.  The  time 
for  giving  this  lesson  seemed  at  this  present  time  the 
more  auspicious  because  for  the  moment  Florence 
had  her  hands  free  from  other  external  complica- 
tions, and  was  perhaps  less  troubled  than  was  her 
wont  by  internal  agitations.  The  jolly  Guelphs  had 
it  their  own  way  more  or  less  in  the  city;  those  that 
were  Ghibelline  in  principle  or  Ghibelline  by  senti- 
ment were  wise  enough  to  keep  their  opinions  to 
themselves.  Such  exiled  Ghibellines  as  had  been 
permitted  to  return  kept  very  mum  and  snug.  The 
Reds  and  the  Yellows  wore  a  show  of  peace,  and  the 
city  would  have  appeared  to  any  stranger's  eyes  to 
be  a  very  marvel  of  union  and  agreement.  Under 
these  circumstances  it  was  thought  by  many,  and 
indeed  boldly  asserted  by  many,  that  it  would  be  a 
good  opportunity  to  take  advantage  of  an  idle, 
peaceful  time  and  give  the  people  of  Arezzo  a 
trouncing.  Wherefore,  according  to  certain  wise 
heads,  it  became  all  good  citizens  to  do  the  utmost 
that  in  them  lay  to  further  so  excellent  a  cause, 
the  elders  by  appropriate  contributions,  according 
to  their  means,  to  the  coffers  of  the  state,  the  younger 
by  volunteering  eagerly  for  service  in  the  ranks  of  a 
punitive  army  to  be  raised  against  Arezzo. 

Never  was  such  a  time  of  military  enthusiasm 
133 


THE    GOD   OF   LOVE 

among  the  young  with  whom  I  frequented,  nor 
did  any  youth  of  them  all  show  to  me  more  enthusi- 
asm for  the  cause  of  the  city  than  Messer  Dante. 
Ever  since  that  day  when  he  had  seen  again  the 
fair  girl  whom  he  had  loved  as  a  fair  child  he  had 
been,  as  indeed  he  had  said  he  would  be,  a  changed 
man,  no  longer  indifferent  to  the  great  concerns  of 
state,  no  longer  absorbed  in  unproductive  studies 
to  the  extinction  of  all  sense  of  citizenship,  but  a 
patriotic  youth  keenly  alive  to  the  duties  that  de- 
volved upon  a  true-hearted  Florentine,  and  zealous 
in  the  practice  of  all  those  arts  that  should  make 
him  more  worthy  to  be  called  her  son.  If  he  had 
surprised  me  by  his  quiet  and  his  wiliness  on  the 
day  of  his  quarrel  with  Messer  Simone  dei  Bardi, 
if  he  had  amazed  me  by  the  writing  of  those  verses, 
the  authorship  of  which  Madonna  Vittoria  had  been 
the  first  to  make  known  to  me,  he  astonished  me 
still  more  now  by  the  proofs  of  his  application  to 
military  and  political  science.  He  would  talk  very 
learnedly  of  the  disposition  of  armies  in  the  field, 
of  the  advantages  and  disadvantages  of  the  use  of 
mercenary  troops,  and  the  best  way  to  defend  and  the 
best  way  to  assault  a  well-walled  citadel,  so  that 
you  would  think,  to  listen  to  him,  that  he  was  some 
gray  old  generalissimo  steeped  in  experience,  and 
not  the  smooth-cheeked  fellow  whom  we  knew,  as 
we  thought,  so  well,  and  whom  perhaps  we  knew 
so  little.  He  showed  himself  as  eager  for  the  affairs 
134 


THE   DEVILS   OF    AREZZO 

of  state  as  for  the  affairs  of  war,  ever  ready  to 
weigh  new  problems  of  political  administration,  and 
to  argue  as  to  the  merits  or  defects  of  this  or  that 
form  of  government. 

In  a  word,  from  being  a  reserved  and  scholarly 
lad  that  seemed  to  take  little  or  no  interest  in  the 
busy  world  about  him,  he  had  suddenly  become  an 
active,  enthusiastic  man  to  whom  all  living  ques- 
tions seemed  exceedingly  alive.  And  with  all  this 
he  kept  on  with  his  sword-practice  as  if  he  had  not 
other  thought  but  arms,  and  kept  on  at  his  rhym- 
ings  as  if  he  had  no  other  thought  but  love  and  song. 
And  since  I  kept  the  knowledge  that  Monna  Vit- 
toria  had  given  me  to  myself — yea,  kept  it  even  from 
Messer  Guido  Cavalcanti — those  in  Florence  that 
cared  for  verses  still  marvelled  at  the  music  of  the 
unknown,  and  wondered  as  to  his  identity. 

Now,  as  the  natural  result  of  the  great  ferment 
and  headiness  in  the  city  and  in  the  hearts  of  all 
men  in  Florence,  there  was  a  mighty  desire  to  come 
to  a  proper  understanding  with  these  Aretines,  the 
proper  understanding  having,  of  course,  for  its 
object  the  placing  of  the  neck  of  Arezzo  under  the 
heel  of  Florence.  But  though,  as  I  have  said,  the 
bickerings  between  the  two  powers  had  been  going 
on  for  a  long  while,  Florence  did  not  as  yet,  in  view 
of  the  complications  that  existed,  and  the  new  com- 
plications that  might  arise  from  overt  act,  feel  her- 
self strong  enough  to  take  the  field  in  open  war 
'35 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

and  to  hazard  all,  it  might  be,  upon  the  chances  of 
a  single  field. 

Then  it  was  that  there  came  into  the  mind  of 
Messer  Simone  dei  Bardi,  instigated  thereunto,  as 
I  verily  believe,  more  for  his  own  purpose  than 
from  any  pure  patriotism,  a  scheme  for  sapping  the 
strength  of  the  Aretines  by  some  sudden  and  secret 
stroke.  It  was  with  this  end  in  view  that  he  went 
up  and  down  the  city,  talking  with  those  that  were 
young  and  inflammable,  and  baiting  his  plans  with 
many  big  words  and  sounding  phrases  that  were  as 
stimulating  to  the  ear  as  the  clanging  of  the  bells 
on  the  war-wagon,  so  that  those  who  heard  them, 
flushed  and  troubled  by  their  music,  were  at  little 
pains  to  inquire  as  to  the  wisdom  that  lay  behind 
them.  When  Messer  Simone  found  that  there  were 
plenty  of  young  men  in  the  city  that  were  as  head- 
strong and  valorous  as  he  could  wish,  he  began  to 
mould  his  words  into  a  closer  meaning  and  to  make 
plainer  what  he  would  be  at.  This  was,  as  it 
seemed,  no  other  than  the  formation  of  a  kind  of 
sacred  army,  such  as  he  had  professed  to  have  read 
of  in  the  history  of  certain  of  the  old  Greek  cities, 
that  was  to  be  entirely  devoted  to  the  gain  and 
welfare  of  the  city,  and  to  regard  all  other  purposes 
in  life  as  of  little  or  no  value  in  comparison.  He 
hinted,  then,  at  the  levying  of  a  legion  of  high- 
spirited  and  adventurous  gentlemen,  whose  object 
was  to  strike  surely  and  suddenly  at  the  strength 
136 


THE   DEVILS   OF   AREZZO 

of  Arezzo,  being  sworn  beforehand  never  to  endure 
defeat  or  to  know  retreat  when  once  they  had 
taken  their  work  in  hand.  To  give  their  object 
greater  significance,  he  suggested  that  this  legion 
should  be  known  as  the  Company  of  Death,  thereby 
signifying  that  those  who  pledged  themselves  thereto 
were  only  to  return  victorious  or  not  at  all. 

You  may  be  sure  that  a  great  many  gallant  youths 
caught  eagerly  at  such  a  chance  of  serving  their 
city,  all  the  more  so,  it  may  be,  because  it  offered 
them  no  direct  reward  in  the  case  of  success  and 
asssured  them  a  self-promised  death  in  the  event 
of  failure.  Now  you  shall  see  wherein  this  scheme 
helped  to  serve  the  purpose  of  Messer  Simone  dei 
Bardi,  for  it  was  his  hope  that  Messer  Dante  should 
be  tempted  to  enroll  himself  in  this  same  Company 
of  Death,  whereby  there  was  every  possibility  of 
Messer  Simone  being  well  rid  of  him. 


XI 

MESSER   FOLCO'S    FESTIVAL 

I  MAY  say,  indeed,  to  the  very  extreme  of  verity, 
that  Messer  Folco  of  the  Portinari  was  an  ex- 
cellent man.  I  will  never  say  that  he  had  not  his 
faults,  for  he  had  them,  being  mortal.  He  was,  it 
may  be,  natived  with  something  of  a  domineering 
disposition.  Feeling  himself  worthy  to  command, 
he  liked,  perhaps  as  often  as  not,  to  assert  that 
worthiness.  It  is  very  certain  that  what  Messer 
Guido  said  of  him  was  true,  and  that  with  regard 
to  his  own  family  he  was  indeed  the  Roman  father, 
one  whose  word  must  be  law  absolute  and  un- 
questionable for  all  his  children.  Yet  withal  a  just 
man  whose  judgments  seldom  erred  in  harshness. 
Although  not  acrimonious,  he  was  inclined  to  be 
choleric,  and  he  was  punctilious  to  a  degree  that 
would  never  have  suited  my  humor  on  all  matters 
that  concerned  what  he  regarded  as  the  sober  con- 
duct of  life.  Enough  of  this.  Let  us  turn  to  the 
good  man's  patent  virtues. 

Though  his  steadfast  adhesion  to  his  own  party 
had  earned  him  many  enemies  among  those  of  the 
138 


MESSER    FOLCO'S   FESTIVAL 

opposing  faction,  he  was  never  so  hot  and  desperate 
a  politician  as  the  most  of  his  compatriots.  There 
was  in  him  something  of  the  ancient  humor  and 
the  ancient  sweetness  of  them  that  wrote  and  taught 
with  Cicero,  and  though  he  thought  as  highly  as 
any  Roman  of  them  all  of  the  honor  and  glory  of  the 
commonweal,  he  was  so  much  of  a  philosopher  as 
to  believe  that  honor  and  glory  to  be  earned,  at 
least  as  much,  by  the  welfare  in  mind  and  body  of 
the  citizens  as  by  the  triumph  of  one  party  over 
another  party.  He  was  alive  with  all  the  delicate 
and  sensible  charities,  was  forever  scheming  and 
planning  to  lessen  distress  and  lighten  sorrows,  and 
if  he  could  have  had  his  way  there  would  never 
have  been  a  sick  man  or  a  poor  man  within  the 
walls  of  Florence.  Toward  this  end,  indeed,  he 
employed  the  major  portion  of  his  considerable 
wealth  with  more  zeal,  and  yet  at  the  same  time 
with  more  prudence,  than  any  other  benefactor  in 
the  city.  Vacant  spaces  of  land,  whose  title-deeds 
lay  to  his  credit,  were  now  busy  with  men  laying 
brick  upon  brick  for  this  building  that  was  to  be 
a  little  temple  of  learning,  and  that  building  that 
was  to  be  a  hospital  for  the  hurts  and  the  sufferings 
of  troubled  men,  and  this  other  that  was  in  time  to 
be  a  church  and  sanctuary  for  the  spirit  as  its  fellow- 
edifices  were  sanctuaries  for  the  body  and  the  mind. 
Messer  Folco  also  gave  largely  in  charities,  both 
public  and  private,  and  yet,  for  all  his  sweetness  of 
139 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

generosity  he  was  so  shrewd  a  man  that  none  ever 
came  to  him  twice  with  a  lying  tale  or  tempted  his 
beneficence  with  false  credentials.  He  would  say, 
and,  indeed,!  have  heard  him  say  it, though  he  spoke 
not  to  me  indeed,  for  I  was  never  one  of  those  that 
he  would  have  chosen  for  intimate  conversation — 
he  would  say  that  charity,  to  be  of  any  service  in  the 
world,  should  be  as  stern  and  swerveless  a  judge  as 
ever  Minos  was.  Like  all  good  Florentines,  he 
loved  the  liberal  arts,  and  no  little  share  of  his 
money  went  in  the  encouragement  of  painters  and 
musicians,  and  the  gravers  of  bronze  and  the  workers 
of  marble,  and  those  whose  splendid  pleasure  it  was 
to  shape  buildings  that  should  be  worthy  of  the 
city. 

As  the  top  and  crown  of  all  these  commendabili- 
ties,  he  had  a  very  liberal  and  hospitable  spirit, 
loving  to  entertain,  not  indeed  ostentatiously,  but 
still  with  so  much  of  restrained  magnificence  as  be- 
came so  wealthy  and  so  honorable  a  man.  It  was 
in  the  service  of  this  spirit  that  Messer  Folco,  some 
good  while  after  that  lovers'  meeting  which  had 
been  so  strangely  brought  about,  and  which  was 
to  have  so  strange  an  issue,  made  up  his  mind  to 
give  a  great  entertainment  to  all  his  friends  and 
lovers  in  the  city.  Because  it  might  be  said  of  him 
that  every  man  that  knew  him  was  his  friend,  and 
that  many  that  knew  him  not  loved  him  for  his 
good  deeds  and  the  clarity  of  his  good  name,  it 
140 


MESSER   FOLCO'S   FESTIVAL 

came  about  that  the  most  part  of  Florence  that 
were  of  Messer  Folco' s  station  were  bidden  to  come 
and  make  merry  at  the  Palace  of  the  Portinari. 
Among  the  number,  to  his  great  satisfaction,  was 
your  poor  servant  who  tells  you  this  tale. 

The  Palace  of  the  Portinari  was  a  great  and 
stately  building,  with  great  and  stately  rooms  inside 
it,  stretching  one  out  of  another  in  what  seemed  to 
be  an  endless  succession  of  ordered  richness,  and 
behind  the  great  and  stately  house  and  within  the 
great  and  stately  walls  that  girdled  it  lay  such  a 
garden  as  no  other  man  in  Florence  owned,  a  gar- 
den so  well  ordained  after  a  plan  so  well  conceived 
that  though  it  was  spacious  indeed,  it  seemed  ten 
times  more  spacious  than  it  really  was  from  the 
cunning  and  ingenuity  with  which  its  lawns  and 
arbors,  its  boscages  and  pergolas,  its  hedges  and 
trees,  its  alleys  and  avenues  were  adapted  to  lead 
the  admiring  wanderer  on  and  on,  and  make  him 
believe  that  he  should  never  come  to  the  end  of  his 
tether. 

This  garden  was,  for  the  most  part,  dedicated  to 
the  service  of  Monna  Beatrice  and  her  girl  friends 
in  the  daytime.  In  the  evening  Messer  Folco 
would  often  walk  there  with  grave  and  learned 
.elders  like  himself,  and  stir  the  sweet  air  with  chang- 
ing old-time  philosophies,  while  Monna  Beatrice 
and  her  maidens  sang  or  danced  or  luted  or  played 
ball.  Messer  Folco  was  a  man  that  cherished  the 
141 


THE   GOD   OF    LOVE 

domesticities,  and  had  no  desire  to  see  his  home 
distorted  into  a  house  of  call  where  all  had  a  right 
to  take  him  by  the  hand,  and  he  held  that  the 
family  life  flourished  best,  like  certain  plants,  in 
seclusion.  But  as  there  is  a  time  for  all  things,  so 
Messer  Folco  found  a  time  for  opening  his  doors  to 
his  friends  and  acquaintances,  and  giving  them  the 
freedom  of  his  sweet  garden,  and  bidding  them  eat 
and  drink  and  dance  and  make  merry  to  the  top 
of  their  desires,  always,  of  course,  under  the  con- 
trol of  such  decorum  as  was  due  to  the  noble 
life. 

It  was  to  celebrate  the  laying  of  the  foundation- 
stone  of  his  hospital  that  Messer  Folco  gave  the 
entertainment  of  which  I  have  just  spoken  and 
whose  eventful  consequences  I  have  yet  to  relate. 
It  must,  of  course,  be  clearly  understood  that  I 
was  not,  and,  indeed,  could  not  be,  always  a  wit- 
ness of  the  events  recorded  or  a  hearer  of  the  words 
set  down  in  my  narrative.  But  while  it  was  my 
happy  or  sad  fortune  to  witness  many  of  these 
events  and  to  hear  many  of  these  words,  it  was  also 
my  privilege,  knowing,  as  I  did,  those  that  played 
their  part  in  my  tale,  and  those  that  knew  them 
well  and  loved  them  well,  to  gain  so  close  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  deeds  I  did  not  witness  and  the  words 
I  did  not  hear  as  to  make  me  as  creditable  in  the 
recording  them  as  any  historian  of  old  time  that 
puts  long  speeches  into  the  mouths  of  statesmen  he 
142 


MESSER   FOLCO'S   FESTIVAL 

never  saw,  and  repeats  the  harangues  of  embattled 
generals  on  fields  where  he  never  fought.  And  so 
to  come  back  to  Messer  Folco  and  his  house  and 
his  garden  and  his  friends  and  the  festival  he  gave 
them. 


XII 

DANTE    READS    RHYMES 

THE  great  hall  of  Messer  Folco's  house  where 
now  he  received  his  guests,  and  me  among 
the  number,  was  a  mighty  handsome  piece  of  work, 
very  brave  with  gay  color  and  rich  hangings  and 
the  costly  pelts  of  Asian  beasts,  and  very  splendidly 
lit  with  an  infinity  of  lamps  of  bronze  that  had  once 
illumined  Caesarian  revels,  and  flambeaux  that 
stood  in  sconces  of  silver  and  sconces  of  brass 
very  rarely  wrought.  At  the  farther  end  the  room 
gave  through  a  colonnade  on  to  the  spacious  garden 
which  it  was  Messer  Folco's  privilege  to  possess,  a 
garden  which,  it  was  said,  had  belonged  in  old  time 
to  a  great  noble  of  the  stately  Roman  days.  This 
colonnade,  be  it  noted,  for  all  it  looked  so  open  and 
amiable,  could  be  shut  off,  if  need  were,  by  sliding 
doors,  so  as  to  make  the  room  defensible  whenever 
the  war-cries  rattled  in  the  streets  and  Guelph  and 
Ghibelline  or  Red  and  Yellow  met  in  deadly  grips 
together. 

When  I  arrived,  and  I  was  among  the  earliest 
visitors,  for  I  dearly  loved  all  manner  of  merry- 
144 


DANTE   READS   RHYMES 

making,  and  thought  it  foolish  to  stand  upon  my 
dignity  and  seem  indifferent  to  mirth,  and  so  come 
late  and  lose  pleasure — when  I  arrived,  I  say,  the 
musicians  were  tuning  their  lutes  in  the  gallery  on 
high,  and  Messer  Folco  was  standing  before  the 
doorway  greeting  his  guests.  Those  that  had  fore- 
stalled me  were  moving  hither  and  thither  over  the 
srrooth  floor,  and  staring,  for  lack  of  other  employ- 
ment, at  the  splendid  tapestries,  and  impatient 
enough  for  the  dancing  and  the  feasting  to  begin. 
And  then,  because  I  wished  to  be  courteous  as 
becomes  the  careful  guest,  I  wrung  by  his  hand 
Messer  Folco,  who,  as  I  think,  had  no  notion,  or  at 
best  the  dimmest,  of  who  I  was,  and  I  said  to  him, 
"  Blessed  be  Heaven,  Messer  Folco,  'tis  good  to  have 
such  a  man  as  you  in  Florence." 

To  which  Messer  Folco  answered,  returning  with 
dignity  my  friendly  pressure,  "'Tis  good  for  any 
man  to  be  in  Florence;  there  is  no  place  like 
Florence  from  here  to  world's  end." 

And  then,  as  I  stood  something  agape  and  fram- 
ing a  further  speech,  another  guest  pushed  by  me 
and  clasped  Messer  Folco's  hand  and  addressed  him, 
saying,  "So  you  have  started  a-building  your  new 
hospital.  Will  you  never  have  done  being  gener- 
ous?" 

And  because  it  always  amuses  me  to  watch  give 
and  take  of  talk  between  human  beings,  I  stood  off 
one  side,  Messer  Folco  having  done  with  me  and 


THE   GOD   OF    LOVE 

forgotten  me,  and  listened  to  the  traffic  of  voices  and 
the  bandying  of  compliments,  and  heard  Messer 
Folco  respond,  "One  that  is  happy  enough  to  be  a 
citizen  of  Florence  should  be  grateful  for  the  favor." 

"Well,"  said  the  new-comer,  whom  I  knew  very 
well  to  be  one  that  made  the  most  of  his  great 
monies  by  usury — "well,"  says  he,  "a  man  cannot 
spend  money  better  than  by  benefiting  the  dis- 
inherited." 

To  which  Messer  Folco,  eying  him  with  gravity, 
and  having,  as  I  make  no  doubt,  his  own  opinion, 
answered,  "So  I  think." 

Now,  by  this  time  the  enthusiastic  usurer  had 
said  his  say  and  had  his  audience,  and  was  straight- 
way pushed  on  one  side.  Then  my  usurer,  not 
knowing  me,  though  indeed  I  knew  him,  or  not 
liking  the  looks  of  me,  as  indeed  his  looks  were  dis- 
tasteful to  me,  for  I  think  a  man's  money  greed  is 
ever  written  in  bitter  ink  upon  the  parchment  of  his 
face,  passed  away  into  the  crowd  beyond.  There- 
after there  accosted  Messer  Folco  a  man  whose 
name  I  knew  at  the  time  but  for  the  life  of  me  I 
cannot  recall  it  now,  and  all  that  I  can  remember 
of  him  is  that  he  was  fat  and  affable  and  a  notorious 
giver  and  gleaner  of  gossip,  as  well  as  one  that  aped 
acquaintance  with  the  arts. 

"Messer  Folco,  your  servant,"  he  began,  in  a 
voice  that  was  as  fat  as  his  abdomen.  Then  went 
on,  in  a  splutter  of  rapture,  "Why,  what  a  company! 
146 


DANTE    READS    RHYMES 

Here  is  all  Florence,  from  base  to  apex."  He  paused 
for  a  moment,  and  said  behind  his  hand,  in  a  loud 
whisper  which  came  easily  to  my  ears,  "Is  the 
mysterious  poet  of  your  fellowship?"  And  he 
glanced  around  knowingly,  as  if  he  hoped  to  divine 
the  unknown  among  the  arriving  guests. 

Messer  Folco  looked  at  him  gravely.  "What 
poet,  friend?"  he  asked;  and  I  truly  think  he 
questioned  in  all  honesty  of  ignorance  as  to  the 
man's  meaning,  and  my  jolly  gossip  answered,  all 
agog  with  his  knowledge: 

"Why,  the  poet  we  in  Florence  that  have  an 
ear  for  sweet  sounds  are  all  talking  of;  the  poet 
whose  name  no  man  knows,  whose  rhymes  are  on 
all  men's  lips;  the  fellow  that  praises  fair  ladies  as 
never  fair  ladies  were  praised  before  since  Orpheus 
carolled  in  Arcady." 

Then  I  noted  how  Messer  Folco,  with  the  air  of 
one  that  did  indeed  recall  some  idle  rumor,  looked 
at  him  curiously,  as  one  that  is  puzzled  how  busy 
men  can  interest  themselves  in  such  trifles  as  love 
rhymes,  and  he  answered,  quietly,  "I  have  given 
little  heed  to  this  wonder;  I  have  been  too  busy 
with  bricks  and  mortar.  Here  comes  one  who  may 
lighten  our  darkness." 

Even  as  he  spoke  my  ever  beloved  friend  and 
the    ever   beloved   friend   of  all  who  were  young 
with  me  and  of  all  good  Florentines,  Messer  Guido 
Cavalcanti,  came  into  the  room. 
147 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

Messer  Folco  wrung  him  heartily  by  the  hand, 
for  he  loved  him  no  less  than  the  rest  of  us.  "  Messer 
Guido,  ever  welcome,"  he  cried,  "never  more  than 
now.  Perhaps  you  can  tell  us — " 

But  before  he  had  time  to  say  what  he  had  to 
say,  Messer  Guido  Cavalcanti  interrupted  him, 
not  uncivilly,  but  as  one  that  wished  to  spare  a 
good  man  the  prins  of  saying  what  his  hearer 
already  understood  as  clearly  as  words  could  utter 
it.  "  I  wager  I  know  what  you  would  say,"  he  de- 
clared. "Do  I  know  the  name  of  the  unknown 
poet  ?" 

Messer  Folco  nodded.  "Well,  do  you?"  he 
asked,  and  those  that  were  standing  about  him, 
and  especially  my  good  fat  gossip  merchant  that 
aired  his  learning,  pricked  their  ears  to  hear  what 
Messer  Guido  might  have  to  say  on  a  matter  that 
tickled  them.  I,  with  my  wider  knowledge,  that 
I  had  kept  steadfastly  to  myself,  stood  by  and 
chuckled. 

For  I  had  that  inside  my  jerkin  against  my 
breast  which,  though  indeed  it  belonged  to  Messer 
Guido,  Messer  Guido  had  never  yet  seen,  and  I 
had  brought  it  with  me  to  deliver  to  him.  And  it 
concerned  the  subject-matter  of  the  speech  of 
Folco  and  his  friends. 

But  Messer  Guido  could  say  little  to  please  them. 
"Why,"  he  declared,  "I  know  no  more  than  all 
Florence  knows  by  this  time,  that  some  one  has 
148 


DANTE    READS    RHYMES 

written  songs  which  all  men  sing,  sonnets  which  all 
women  sigh  over.  There  is  a  ballad  of  his  addressed 
to  all  ladies  that  are  learned  in  love  which  is  some- 
thing more  than  beautiful." 

My  jolly  gossip  nodded  sagaciously.  "Aye,  but 
who  made  it  ?"  he  questioned,  sententiously,  and 
looked  as  complacent  as  if  he  had  said  something 
really  wise. 

Guido  saluted  him  politely.  "Ask  some  one 
wiser  than  I." 

As  for  me,  I  grinned  to  think  that  I  was  that 
some  one  wiser,  and  that  Guido  never  suspected  it. 

Messer  Folco  touched  my  dear  friend  lightly  on 
the  shoulder.  "It  was  not  your  honor's  self?"  he 
asked,  benignly,  with  his  shrewd  eyes  smiling  upon 
the  handsome  face. 

Messer  Guido  shook  his  head.  "No,  Messer 
Folco,"  he  protested,  "my  little  wit  flies  my  flag 
and  wears  my  coat.  If  I  could  write  such  rhymes 
as  those  I  should  never  be  mum  about  them,  I 
promise  you." 

Then,  with  a  gracious  gesture,  as  of  apology  for 
having  failed  to  satisfy  the  curiosity  of  those  that 
accosted  him,  he  saluted  Messer  Folco  and  moved 
toward  the  centre  of  the  room.  I  was  on  his  heels 
in  an  instant,  for  I  wished  for  a  word  with  him 
before  he  was  unfindable  in  the  thick  and  press  of 
his  friends,  and  I  had  somewhat  to  say  to  him  con- 
cerning the  very  matter  on  which  he  had  been 
149 


THE    GOD    OF    LOVE 

speaking.  I  caught  him  by  the  arm,  and  he  turned 
to  greet  me  as  he  greeted  all  that  knew  him  and 
loved  him,  with  a  smile,  and  I  whispered  him, 
plucking  a  paper  from  my  breast. 

"Guido,  heart,  hearken.  Here  is  a  new  song 
sent  to  your  house  that  seems  better  than  all  the 
others.  I  called  at  your  lodgings  and  saw  a  scroll 
on  your  table,  and  knowing  what  it  must  be,  I  made 
bold  to  read  it,  and,  having  read  it,  to  bear  it  to 
you." 

And  Messer  Guido  answered  me,  eagerly:  "I 
have  not  been  home;  I  have  been  all  day  with  the 
cardinal.  For  love's  sake,  let  me  see."  He  took  the 
paper  from  me  and  read  it  over,  and  then  he  said 
to  me,  gravely:  "Why,  this  is  better  than  the  best 
we  have  had  yet.  This  is  the  finish  of  the  ballad 
of  fair  Florentines.  Here  is  the  nightingale  of 
Florence  singing  his  heart  out  for  us,  and  we  are 
at  a  loss  for  his  name." 

Then  I,  being  delighted  at  my  own  initiation  into 
this  mystery  of  the  nameless  singer,  and  fired  by 
Guide's  praises  of  him,  turned  to  those  about  me, 
and  the  room  had  filled  a  little  by  this  time,  and  I 
cried  out,  as  indeed  I  had  no  business  to  do  in  a 
house  where  at  best  I  was  little  more  than  a  stranger. 
And  this  is  what  I  said:  "Gentles  all,  squires  and 
dames,  loving  and  loved,  here  is  rose-scented  news 
for  you.  The  unknown  poet  has  sung  again,  and 
Messer  Guido  has  the  words  in  his  fingers." 
150 


DANTE   READS    RHYMES 

Now  there  came  a  hush  of  talking  in  the  room 
as  I  said  these  words,  and  Messer  Guido  looked  at 
me  something  reprovingly,  because  of  my  forward- 
ness, and  all  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  pair  of  us. 

Then  Messer  Folco,  moving  close  up  to  me,  touched 
me  on  the  shoulder  and  said,  with  a  quiet  irony, 
"You  are  very  good,  sir,  to  be  my  major-domo." 

Instantly  I  bowed  to  the  ground  in  sober  recogni- 
tion of  my  error.  "Forgive  me  the  heat  of  my 
zeal,"  I  protested.  "  I  diminish,  I  dwindle,  I  wither. 
Unless  your  pity  forgives  me,  I  shall  evaporate 
into  air." 

Then  Messer  Folco  laughed  good-humoredly, 
and,  turning  to  Guido,  said,  "Messer  Guido,  of 
your  charity,  let  us  hear." 

But  Guido,  the  ever  obliging,  was  here  unwilling 
to  oblige.  "Shall  the  owl  croak  the  notes  of  the 
nightingale  ?"  he  asked,  extending  his  open  palms 
in  a  gesture  of  emphatic  denial. 

Now  even  at  that  moment,  with  Messer  Guido 
politely  declining,  and  Messer  Folco  still  in  a  mood 
between  smiling  and  frowning  on  account  of  my 
presumption,  and  I  gaping  open-mouthed,  and  the 
guests  that  were  gathered  about  us  staring  eagerly 
at  the  parchment  which  my  dear  friend  held  in  his 
hand,  something  curious  occurred.  There  came  a 
voice  from  the  press  hard  by  me,  a  voice  that  I 
seemed  to  know  very  well  and  yet  that  I  could  not  on 
the  instant  name  with  the  owner's  name,  and  this 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

voice  cried  aloud,  so  that  all  present  could  hear  the 
cry  distinctly :  "Let  Messer  Dante  read  the  rhymes!" 
Even  as  the  voice  spoke  I  saw  the  reason  for  its 
spending  of  breath,  for  at  that  very  moment  Messer 
Dante  entered  the  hall,  and  was  making  his  way 
toward  Messer  Folco  with  the  bearing  of  one  that 
courteously  salutes  his  host. 

I  looked  about  me  sharply  to  right  and  to  left,  in 
the  hope  that  I  might  by  chance  catch  sight  of  the 
guest  that  thus  called  upon  my  friend,  but  I  could  see 
no  one  to  whom  I  could  with  any  surety  credit  the 
utterance.  I  observed,  indeed,  a  certain  youth  that 
was  cloaked  as  to  his  body  and  masked  as  to  his 
face  slipping  out  of  the  crowd  about  me  who  might 
have  been  the  speaker,  but  whom  I  could  in  nowise 
identify.  It  was  so  much  the  mode  with  many  of 
us  that  were  young  in  Florence  to  come — and  some- 
times to  come  unbidden — to  such  galas  as  this  of 
Messer  Folco's  in  antic  habits  and  to  hide  our 
features  with  vizards,  that  there  was  nothing  in  this 
costume  to  single  out  the  youth  whom  I  believed  to 
be  the  utterer  of  that  call  for  Dante.  There  were 
many  other  masked  and  muffled  figures  within  the 
walls  of  Messer  Folco's  house  that  night  as  hard 
to  tell  apart  as  one  cherry  from  another.  But  who- 
ever the  speaker  may  have  been,  the  speech  had  the 
desired  effect.  Coupled  as  it  so  timely  was  with 
the  appearance  of  Dante  under  Messer  Folco's 
roof,  it  caught  the  fancy  of  all  that  heard  it,  and 
152 


DANTE    READS   RHYMES 

each  hearer  echoed  readily  enough  the  suggestion: 
"Let  Messer  Dante  read  the  rhymes!"  Thus  it 
came  about  that  Messer  Dante  had  scarcely  gone 
many  paces  down  the  hall  toward  his  host  when 
he  became  aware  that  he  was  the  target  of  all 
eyes. 

Though  he  was  surprised  at  this  unexpected  at- 
tention on  the  part  of  so  large  a  concourse  of  persons, 
he  was  in  no  sense  taken  aback  or  embarrassed, 
but  came  quietly  to  a  halt  and  looked  with  a  curious 
and  composed  scrutiny  at  the  crowd  of  men  and 
women  that  were  all  regarding  him  so  intently.  As 
he  did  so,  some  one  cried  again,  "Let  Messer  Dante 
read  the  rhymes!"  And  this  time  Dante  heard  the 
words,  and  he  saw  also  how  Messer  Guido  stood 
in  the  throng  hard  by  to  Folco  and  held  in  his  hands 
a  roll  of  parchment.  For  a  moment  Dante  showed 
some  signs  of  discomposure.  He  changed  his 
fresh  color  a  little  to  an  unfamiliar  paleness,  and 
his  eyes  meeting  mine,  they  flashed  a  question  at 
me  which  I  could  but  answer  by  a  determined  shake 
of  the  head.  For  I  saw  that  Dante's  had  a  mis- 
giving that  I  had  revealed  his  secret,  which  indeed 
I  had  not.  Then  Dante  looked  at  Guido  as  if  to 
question  him,  but  before  he  could  speak  Messer 
Folco  had  paid  him  a  grave  salutation  and  began  to 
address  him  gravely. 

"Messer  Dante,"  he  said,  "you  are  very  welcome 
to  my  house,  and  I  greet  you  cheerfully.  Beyond 
153 


THE    GOD    OF    LOVE 

this  it  is  fit  that  I  should  explain  to  you  why,  in  this 
instant  of  your  coming,  your  name  is  in  so  many 
mouths.  We  were  speaking  here  but  now  of  the 
unknown  poet  whose  verses  have  of  late  at  once 
enraptured  and  bewildered  our  city,  and  many  of 
us  were  entreating  Messer  Guido,  who  holds  in  his 
hand  the  latest  verses  of  the  nameless  singer,  to 
read  them  aloud  to  us.  And  he  declining  from,  as 
we  think,  an  over-delicate  sense  of  modesty,  it  was 
suggested  by  him  or  by  another,  I  know  not,  on 
seeing  you  enter,  that  you  should  read  to  us  the 
rhymes  in  question." 

Here  Messer  Folco  bowed  very  courteously  to 
Dante,  but  before  Dante,  who  seemed,  as  indeed  he 
well  might,  somewhat  at  a  loss  what  to  say,  could 
utter  a  syllable  in  reply,  Messer  Guido  had  fore- 
stalled him. 

"There  could  not  be  a  better  choice,"  he  pro- 
tested, "though  it  was  none  of  my  proposing. 
Messer  Dante  has  a  sweet  and  clear  voice,  and  if 
it  will  but  please  him  to  meet  our  entreaties  we  shall 
be  indeed  his  debtors." 

And  as  he  spoke  he  thrust  into  Dante's  hand  the 
roll  of  parchment  on  which  the  poem  was  written, 
and  all  that  heard  him  applauded,  and  waited  for 
Dante  to  begin.  Indeed,  it  was  a  common  thing 
then,  in  places  where  friend  met  friend,  for  one  that 
had  a  voice  to  read  somewhat  aloud  for  the  delecta- 
tion of  the  others,  whether  a  pleasant  tale  in  prose 
iS4 


DANTE    READS   RHYMES 

or  a  poetic  canzonet.  But  Dante,  while  he  took 
the  parchment  from  Guido's  fingers,  looked  about 
him  quietly  and  spoke,  and  his  voice  and  words 
were  very  decided  in  denial. 

"I  do  not  know,"  he  said,  ''why  this  privilege 
should  be  given  to  me,  and  with  your  good  leaves  I 
will  ask  Messer  Guido  to  find  him  a  worthier  inter- 
preter." With  that  he  made  as  if  he  would  put 
the  parchment  back  again  into  the  hand  of  Messer 
Guido,  and  I  could  understand  very  well,  if  no  one 
else  could,  why  he  should  be  so  unwilling  to  do  this 
thing.  But  you  know  how  it  is  with  a  crowd: 
once  any  mob  of  men  or  women,  or  men  and  women, 
gets  an  idea  into  its  head,  it  is  an  adventure  that 
would  trouble  the  devil  to  get  it  out  again.  Ever 
since  the  masked  youth  had  voiced  his  call  for 
Messer  Dante  to  read  the  poem,  it  had  become  the 
assembly's  hunger  and  thirst,  will,  desire,  and  de- 
termination that  the  poem  should  be  read  by  no 
other  than  Messer  Dante,  though  I  will  dare  make 
wager  that  any  single  man  or  woman  of  them  all, 
if  individually  addressed,  would  as  lief  any  other 
than  Dante  should  take  up  the  task.  I  thought  I 
caught  a  glimpse  of  my  masked  youth  in  another 
part  of  the  crowd  prompting  the  demand.  So 
Messer  Guido,  as  herald  of  the  general  wish,  smil- 
ingly refused  to  take  back  the  paper  parchment, 
and  Dante,  ever  too  wise  to  be  stubborn  for  stub- 
bornness' sake,  surrendered,  where  to  persist  in 
155 


THE    GOD   OF   LOVE 

refusal  would  have  seemed  churlish  to  his  host  and 
to  his  company. 

"Since  you  honor  me  so  far,"  he  said,  with  the 
wistful  smile  of  one  who  feels  that  chance  has 
penned  him  in  a  corner,  "  I  must  needs  obey."  And 
with  the  word  he  began  to  unroll  the  parchment 
carefully.  As  he  did  so  something  moved  me  to 
look  round,  and  I  saw  that  Madonna  Beatrice  had 
entered  the  great  hall  and  had  come  to  a  halt, 
observing  that  something  unusual  was  toward. 

Madonna  Beatrice  stood  arrested  there  among 
her  maidens,  pale  and  fair,  as  an  angel  might  stand, 
ranged  about  by  radiant  mortality.  I  never  could 
find  then,  and  I  never  shall  find,  though  I  have 
tried  often  enough,  Lord  knows,  the  exact  word  or 
exact  sequence  of  words  that  should  fittingly  con- 
vey the  effect  of  her  beauty,  even  upon  those  who 
having  seen  it  often  seemed  on  each  occasion  to 
behold  it  for  the  first  time.  Of  her,  as  of  every 
beauty  that  has  graced  the  world  since  Helen  set 
fire  to  Troy,  and  Semiramis  sent  dead  lovers  adrift 
down  the  river  of  Assyria,  and  Cleopatra  charmed 
Caesar  and  Antony  and  Heaven  knows  who  besides, 
it  might  be  said  that  she  had  the  familiar  features 
of  womankind;  but  what  it  was  that  made  those 
features  so  marvellous,  ah!  there  was  the  task  for  a 
greater  poet  than  I  to  take  upon  his  shoulders. 
Even  the  great  poet  that  loved  her — and  I  keep  his 
love-book  on  my  shelf  to  this  hour,  wedged  in  be- 
156 


DANTE    READS    RHYMES 

tween  a  regiment  of  the  Fathers — even  Dante  has 
told  us  nothing  that  shall  serve  to  make  the  ages 
yet  to  come  understand  what  the  woman  was  like 
that  a  man  could  love  with  so  rapturous  a  madness 
of  passion.  Sometimes  I  have  thought,  in  my 
gropings  after  the  phrase  to  express  her,  that  the 
word  "luminous"  was,  perhaps,  of  all  single  words, 
the  word  that  seemed  to  hold  shut  in  its  casket  the 
most  of  the  meaning  that  I  sought  to  convey. 
There  seemed  to  be  about  her,  even  to  me  that  was 
never  her  lover,  a  radiancy,  a  nimbus,  as  it  were,  of 
celestial  light  that  gave  to  pulsing  flesh  and  running 
blood  and  circumambient  skin  a  quality  that  was, 
as  it  were,  flamelike,  ethereal,  unreal. 

Yet  though  the  essence  of  her  bodily  being  was,  as 
I  knew,  so  frail,  there  was  no  show  of  frailness  in  her 
gracious  presence.  She  was  tall  for  a  woman,  and 
her  coloring  was  fresh  and  sane;  her  bust  and  limbs 
were  moulded  with  a  wise  and  restrained  generosity 
that  became  her  youth,  and  promised  nobility  of 
proportion  for  her  maturity.  She  moved  with  the 
smooth  and  lively  carriage  of  a  nymph  down  the 
woodland  lawns,  with  her  head  easily  erect  and 
her  eyes  steadily  seeing  the  world.  She  might 
almost  have  been  the  youngest  of  the  Amazons  or 
the  latest  of  those  strange  demi-deities  that  haunted 
the  hilis  and  woods  and  waters  until  the  death  of 
the  god  Pan  dealt  them,  too,  their  death-blow. 
Her  eyes  had  the  clearness  of  a  clear  night  in  June; 
157 


THE   GOD    OF   LOVE 

her  lips  were  quick  with  the  brisk  crimson  of  a  pink 
quince.  Oh,  Saint  Cupido,  what  vanity  is  this,  to 
essay  to  paint  the  unpaintable!  Enough  that  she 
was  young  and  fair  and  shapely,  and  that  if  in  her 
eyes  there  dwelt  the  pensiveness  of  those  whose 
very  loveliness  suggests  a  destined  melancholy,  her 
lips  were  always  smiling,  and  her  greeting  always 
blithe,  yet  I  seemed  to  see  black  care  incarnate 
behind  her,  and  I  will  tell  you  why. 

Among  the  girls  that  were  gathered  about  her, 
plump,  comely,  jolly  girls  that  were,  I  will  readily 
confess  it,  more  in  my  way  of  wooing  than  their 
radiant  mistress,  there  stood  the  figure  of  a  thin 
and  withered  man  in  black,  with  very  white  hair 
and  very  smooth,  gray  cheeks  and  very  bright,  wise 
eyes.  Him  I  knew  to  be  Messer  Tommaso  Severe, 
that  had  served  the  Portinari  as  leech  for  longer 
years  than  many  in  Florence  could  count.  He  it 
was  that  had  ushered  Messer  Folco  himself  into 
this  troublesome  world,  that  is,  however,  less  trouble- 
some at  Florence  than  elsewhere.  He  had  done  the 
like  for  Madonna  Beatrice,  and  from  the  hour  of 
her  birth  he,  whom  many  blamed  for  a  pagan 
cynicism  and  philosophic  disdain  of  humanity,  had 
watched  over  her  life  with  the  tenderness  that 
watches  the  growth  of  some  fair  and  unfamiliar 
flower.  He  was,  besides  being  a  master-physician, 
one  that  was  thoroughly  learned  in  the  science  of 
the  stars,  and  I  have  always  heard  that  the 

.58 


DANTE    READS    RHYMES 

scope  he  drew  for  my  lady  Beatrice  was  the  chief 
cause  of  his  tireless  devotion  and  care.  To  her 
service  he  had  dedicated  the  lees  of  his  life  and 
the  ripeness  of  his  knowledge.  It  was  he  who  had 
carried  her  away  for  so  long  a  space  of  years  from 
the  summer  heats  and  winter  colds  of  Florence  to 
the  green  temperance  and  tranquillity  of  the  hills. 
It  was  he  who  at  last,  still  guided  by  that  horoscope 
of  which  he  alone  knew  the  lesson,  sanctioned  the 
maiden's  return  to  the  city,  to  live  outside  which, 
though  even  in  the  loveliest  places  thereafter  at- 
tainable, is  to  live  in  exile.  I  know  for  sure  that  he 
said  of  his  sweet  charge  that  flesh  and  spirit  were 
so  exquisitely  poised  in  her  perfect  body  that  it 
needed  but  some  breath  of  fate  to  scatter  them 
irrevocably  apart,  as  a  child's  breath  can  scatter 
the  down  of  a  dandelion  to  all  the  corners  of  a 
field.  But  though  I  thought  of  this  now,  as  I 
beheld  the  girl  and  the  elder  so  close  together,  I 
could  not,  for  my  life,  believe  it,  seeing  how  buoy- 
antly she  carried  her  beauty  and  the  nobility  of 
her  color. 

Messer  Dante  still  had  the  two  ends  of  the  roll 
of  parchment  in  his  fingers  as  Madonna  Beatrice 
entered  the  hall,  and  in  the  very  instant  of  her  ap- 
pearance he  was  aware  of  her  presence,  and  I  that 
was  watching  all  things  at  once,  like  Argus  in  the 
antique  fable,  I  saw  how  his  hands  trembled  and 
how  his  lips  quivered  with  the  knowledge  of  her 
159 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

approach.  But  otherwise  he  showed  no  sign  of 
the  advance  of  divinity,  and  holding  the  parch- 
ment well  before  his  face,  rolling  and  unrolling  as 
the  duty  needed,  he  began  to  read  what  was  written 
on  the  skin. 

The  poem,  as  I  already  knew,  made  up  the  second 
part  of  a  lengthy  ballad  in  praise  of  the  ladies  of 
Florence.  It  was  cast  in  an  allegorical  fashion, 
aiming  to  portray  a  pageant  of  fair  women,  each 
single  verse  seeking  to  picture  some  one  of  the 
many  lovely  ladies  that  in  those  days  made  Florence 
a  very  Venus  Hill  for  the  ravishment  of  the  senses 
and  the  stirring  of  the  blood.  I  wish  with  all  my 
heart  that  I  could  set  the  whole  of  it  down  here, 
for  it  was  most  ingeniously  fancied  and  handled, 
and  it  was  not  over  difficult  for  the  admirers  of  any 
particular  beauty  to  pierce  the  dainty  veil  of  sym- 
bolism with  which  the  poet  had  pretended  to  en- 
velop her  identity.  Alas!  my  memory  will  not 
serve  me  to  recall  the  greater  part  of  it,  or,  indeed, 
any  but  a  little,  though  that  little  is  in  truth  the 
very  kernel  of  the  whole,  and  I  have  no  copy  of  the 
ballad  by  me  to  mend  my  memory.  But,  as  I  say, 
what  I  do  remember  is  the  centre-jewel  of  its  crown 
of  song. 

My  Dante  read  the  verses  that  were  his  own 

verses  in  a  voice  that  was  very  even,  melodious,  but 

so  sustained  and  tamed  as  to  make  it  seem  plain  to 

all  that  listened  that  he  was  dealing  with  somewhat 

160 


DANTE    READS    RHYMES 

whose  matter  he  had  never  seen  before.  And  as 
he  read  each  stanza,  with  its  laudation  of  some  love- 
ly lady  that  was  one  of  the  living  graces  and  glories 
of  our  city,  those  that  spelled  the  cryptic  riddle  of 
its  meaning  clapped  their  hands  for  pleasure  and 
turned  their  eyes  to  where  the  lady  thus  bepraised 
stood  and  smiled  at  her,  and  she,  delighted,  would 
bridle  and  fidget  with  her  fan  and  seek  to  maintain 
herself  as  if  she  did  not  care  one  whit  for  what  in 
reality  she  prized  very  highly.  So  the  river  of  sweet 
words  ran  on,  sweetly  voiced,  and  flowing  in  its 
appointed  course  with  a  golden  felicity  of  thought 
and  phrase. 

Very  soon  the  roll  of  parchment  in  Dante's  right 
hand  was  larger  by  much  than  the  roll  of  parch- 
ment in  Dante's  left,  and  it  was  plain  indeed  to  all 
present  that  the  reading  and  the  poem  were  coming 
to  an  end.  It  was  also  plain  to  all  present  that 
the  utterance  of  the  poet  was  growing  more  agitated, 
and  his  manner  more  embarrassed  and  anxious, 
and  it  was  manifest  to  me,  who  watched  him  keenly, 
that  he  was  trembling  like  a  cypress  in  a  light 
wind.  As  he  came  to  the  last  verse  it  seemed  as  if 
some  irresistible  compulsion  compelled  him  to  turn 
his  head  in  the  direction  where  Madonna  Beatrice 
stood  apart  with  her  women  and  her  leech.  As  he 
did  so  the  parchment  fell  from  his  suddenly  parted 
fingers  and  lay  in  two  rolls  at  his  feet.  But,  as  if 
he  were  unaware  of  what  had  happened,  Dante 
161 


THE   GOD    OF   LOVE 

went  on  with  his  recitation  of  the  poem.  I  could 
see  very  clearly  that  the  madness  of  love  was  wholly 
upon  him,  the  madness  that  makes  a  man  lose  all 
heed  of  what  he  does  and  be  conscious  of  naught 
save  the  presence  of  the  beloved.  He  stood  there 
rigid,  as  one  possessed,  with  his  face  turned  in  the 
direction  where  the  lady  Beatrice  stood  amid  her 
women,  and  his  hands,  newly  liberated  from  the 
control  of  the  parchment  that  lay  at  his  feet,  were 
clasped  together  in  a  tight  embrace.  And  when  I 
turned  my  gaze  from  him  to  her  whose  beauty  he 
so  passionately  regarded,  I  was  aware  that  she  too 
was  under  the  spell  of  his  words,  and  was  conscious 
of  the  adoration  in  his  eyes.  Truly  that  boy  and 
that  girl,  as  they  stood  there  in  the  clean  spring- 
tide of  their  youth  and  comeliness,  seemed  to  me 
to  be  a  pair  very  properly  and  lovingly  made  by 
Heaven  one  for  the  other.  "Here,"  said  I  to  my- 
self, "if  there  be  any  truth  in  Messer  Plato's  theory 
of  affinities,  here  is  a  living  proof  of  the  Grecian 
whimsy.  And  here,"  I  said  to  myself,  "if  folk 
must  needs  marry — a  thing  I  never  could  under- 
stand— here,  as  I  think,  is  an  instance  in  which  a 
man  and  a  woman  might  really  be  happy  together, 
making  true  mates,  lovers,  and  friends,  finding  life 
sweet  to  share,  and  finding  nothing  in  their  union 
that  was  not  noble  and  pure."  So  I  thought  while 
my  Dante  was  betraying  his  secret  by  repeating  his 
lesson  without  his  book. 

16? 


DANTE    READS   RHYMES 

These  were  the  words  that  he  spoke  with  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  lady  Beatrice,  and  they  live  in 
my  memory  as  fresh  as  they  seemed  on  the  day 
when  I  first  read  them  in  Messer  Guide's  lodging, 
and  the  evening  when  I  first  heard  them  in  Messer 
Folco's  hall.  Here  is  what  they  said: 

"Blessed  they  name  the  lady  whom  I  love, 
Even  as  the  angelic  lips  in  Paradise 
At  last  shall  bless  her  when  she  moves  above 
The  sun  and  all  the  stars.     But  while  mine  eyes 
Regard  her  ere  she  numbers  the  Nine  Skies, 
Immortal  in  her  mortal  loveliness, 
Can  I  be  scorned  if  to  my  soul  of  sighs 
Earth's  blessing  seems  the  greater,  Heaven's  the  less  ?" 

Even  as  he  came  to  an  end  in  the  great  quiet 
that  reigned  over  the  place,  I  saw  how  Dante  grew 
of  a  sudden  strangely  pale,  and  how  his  body  swayed 
as  if  his  senses  were  about  to  drown  themselves  in 
a  swoon,  and  I  truly  think  that  he  would  have 
fainted  away  and  fallen  to  the  ground  in  the  trans- 
port of  his  passion  if  I  had  not  sprung  forward 
from  amid  the  throng  where  I  stood  and  caught 
him  in  my  arms. 


XIII 

GO-BETWEENS 

r"PO  most  of  those  that  were  present  in  Messer 
1  Folco?s  house  that  night  it  was  little  less  than 
impossible  to  misunderstand  the  meaning  of  those 
latest  rhymes  that  Messer  Dante  had  read.  Even 
if  none  had  taken  into  account  the  agitation  that 
had  come  over  my  friend,  and  which  at  least  iden- 
tified him  in  spirit  with  the  substance  of  what  he 
read,  if  it  did  not  patently  proclaim  him  the  author, 
at  least  it  was  staringly  evident  that  the  stanza 
was  a  public  tribute  to  the  loveliness  of  Madonna 
Beatrice.  Did  not  her  name  of  Beatrice  imply 
blessedness,  and  was  not  blessedness,  terrestrial  and 
celestial,  the  intimate  theme  of  the  octave  ?  Further, 
since  I  speak  of  the  octave,  were  not  those  that  had 
nimble  judgments  and  sprightly  memories  able  to 
recall  that  Madonna  Beatrice's  name  was  made  up 
of  eight  letters,  and  then,  following  on  this  pathway 
of  knowledge,  to  discover  that  the  first  letter  of  each 
line  of  the  stanza  corresponded  in  its  order  with 
the  like  letter  in  the  name  of  the  daughter  of  Folco 
Portinari. 

164 


GO-BETWEENS 

In  the  face  of  such  an  amazing  revelation  a  kind 
of  heavy  silence  brooded  awhile  over  the  company, 
and  lasted,  indeed,  as  long  as  the  time,  which  was 
indeed  but  brief,  that  Dante  lay  in  my  arms  in  his 
stupor.  While  some  believed  that  in  Dante  they 
beheld — as  in  very  truth  they  did — the  author  of  the 
poem,  and  in  consequence  the  body  of  the  unknown 
poet  that  had  haunted  their  imaginations,  others 
merely  appreciated  that  the  unknown  poet,  who- 
ever he  might  be,  had  declared  himself  very  patent- 
ly the  adorer  of  Monna  Beatrice,  wherefore  it  was 
to  be  inferred  that  all  those  other  love-songs,  which 
the  golden  youth  of  Florence  loved  to  murmur  to 
the  ears  of  their  ladies,  were  so  many  roses  and 
lilies  and  violets  laid  on  the  same  shrine. 

Whoever  misunderstood  the  true  meaning  of 
what  had  happened,  I  think  that  Messer  Folco 
understood  well  enough,  and  was  mightily  little 
pleased  in  the  understanding.  Though  Dante  had, 
indeed,  the  right  to  claim  nobility  of  birth,  neither 
his  station  in  the  city  nor  his  worldly  means  were 
such  as  to  commend  him  to  Messer  Folco's  eyes  as 
a  declared  lover  of  his  daughter.  Whatever  annoy- 
ance Messer  Folco  may  have  felt  at  the  untoward 
occurrence,  he  was  too  accomplished  a  gentleman 
to  allow  any  sign  of  chagrin  to  appear  in  his  voice 
or  countenance  or  demeanor.  He  did  no  more 
than  thank  Dante,  who  had  by  this  time  quite  over- 
master^, his  passing  weakness,  for  his  courtesy  in 
165 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

reading  such  very  pleasing  verses.  Then,  turning 
to  the  guests  that  stood  about,  somewhat  discon- 
certed and  puzzled  by  what  had  taken  place,  he 
addressed  them  in  loud  tones,  telling  them  that  a 
slight  banquet  was  set  forth  in  the  adjacent  room, 
and  begged  them  to  enjoy  it  before  the  dancing 
should  begin. 

At  these  pleasant  tidings  the  most  of  Messer 
Folco's  company  were  greatly  elated,  and  hastened 
to  pair  themselves  off  very  merrily,  and  to  make 
their  ways  toward  the  banqueting-room,  where, 
indeed,  a  very  delectable  feast  was  spread,  such  an 
one  as  might  have  tickled  the  palate  and  flattered 
the  appetite  of  any  of  the  high-livers  and  dainty 
drinkers  of  old  Rome.  As  our  jolly  Florentine  lads 
and  winsome  Florentine  lasses  ate  and  drank,  they 
chattered  of  what  they  had  just  heard,  of  what 
they  had  just  seen,  and  were  all  agreed  to  a  man 
Jack  and  a  woman  Jill  that  Madonna  Beatrice  was 
a  very  flower  of  women,  and  that  if  Messer  Dante 
laid  his  heart  at  her  feet  it  was  no  doubt  a  piece 
of  great  presumption,  but  otherwise  an  act  highly 
to  be  applauded.  We  were  very  young  in  Florence 
in  those  days,  and  our  hearts  were  always  quick  to 
beat  time  to  the  drum-taps  of  love  or  any  other 
high  and  generous  passion.  If  we  have  changed 
since,  it  is  the  fault  of  the  changing  years  and  the 
loss  of  the  Republic. 

I  make  no  doubt  that  there  were  some  who 
1 66 


GO-BETWEENS 

grumbled  and  carped  and  cavilled;  said  this  and 
said  that;  grunted  porcine  over  the  pretty  pass 
things  were  coming  to  in  the  city  when  a  nobody  or 
a  next-to-nobody  like  young  Dante  of  the  Alighieri 
could  presume  to  lift  his  impudent  eyes  to  a  daughter 
of  a  man  like  Folco  Portinari,  one  of  the  first  citizens 
of  Florence,  and  a  man  that  builded  hospitals  and 
basilicas  at  his  own  expense.  But  the  growls  of 
these  grumblers  and  carpers  and  snarlers  did  not 
count  in  the  general  and  genial  applause  that  our 
youth  gave  to  mellifluous  numbers  and  lovely  love, 
and  the  thousand  beautiful  things  and  thoughts 
that  make  this  poor  life  of  ours  seem  for  a  season 
Elysium.  So  they  feasted  and  prattled,  and  I  turn 
to  another  theme. 

If  the  meaning  of  what  Messer  Dante  said  and 
the  meaning  of  what  Messer  Dante  did  was  plain 
and  over-plain  to  Messer  Folco,  it  was  surely  in  the 
very  nature  of  things  no  less  plain  to  his  daughter. 
To  her,  at  least,  there  can  have  been  no  riddle  to 
read  in  the  young  man's  words,  in  the  young  man's 
actions.  Love,  splendid  and  fierce  and  humble, 
reigned  in  the  glowing  words  that  he  read,  ruled  his 
failing  voice,  swayed  his  reeling  figure.  She  could 
not  question  the  identity  of  the  Blessed  One  whose 
beauty  made  the  singer  sacrilegious  in  the  white- 
heat  of  his  devotion.  She  could  not  misinterpret 
the  significance  of  the  abandoned  parchment  lying 
discarded  where  it  had  fallen  on  the  floor  while  the 
167 


THE    GOD   OF    LOVE 

reciter,  with  his  sad  eyes  fixed  upon  her  face,  re- 
peated so  familiarly  the  words  which  he  was  sup- 
posed never  to  have  seen.  For  Beatrice,  Dante 
of  the  Alighieri  was  the  author  of  the  ballad  in 
praise  of  fair  Florentines;  for  her  he  was  the  un- 
known poet  whose  fame  had  flamed  through 
Florence,  and  she  was  the  lady  that  was  praised 
with  words  of  such  enchanting  sweetness  in  his 
songs. 

While  the  guests  were  going  toward  the  banquet 
as  brisk  as  bees  to  blossoms,  Dante  caught  me  by 
the  hand  and  drew  me  apart,  and  entreated  me  to 
seek  speech  with  Beatrice,  and  to  entreat  her  to 
grant  him  an  interview  in  private  that  very  night. 
He  dared  not,  so  he  said,  approach  her  himself,  in 
the  first  place  because  the  doing  so  might  prove 
too  noticeable  after  what  had  occurred,  and,  in  the 
second  place,  because  he  feared  that  she  had  some 
cause  of  complaint  against  him,  seeing  that  she  had 
of  late  refused  him  her  salutation.  He  bade  me 
urge  her  very  strenuously  to  grant  his  prayer,  for 
his  soul's  sake  and  his  body's  sake,  that  he  might 
live  and  not  die. 

Since  I  was  ever  willing  to  serve  my  friend,  I 
agreed  to  do  this  thing,  and  so  left  him  to  the  care 
of  Messer  Guido,  who  came  up  on  that  instant  and 
addressed  him  in  very  loving  terms,  charging  him 
with  being  indeed  the  poet  whose  name  they  had 
sought  so  long.  Dante  not  denying  this,  as  indeed 
168 


GO-BETWEENS 

denial  would  have  been  idle,  even  if  Dante  had 
been  willing,  as  indeed  he  never  was,  to  utter  such 
a  falsehood,  saying  that  he  had  not  done  that  which 
he  had  done,  Messer  Guido  began  to  praise  him 
in  such  glowing  words  as  would  have  made  another 
man  happy.  But  for  Dante  happiness  lay  only  in 
the  kind  thoughts  of  his  lady,  and  the  very  shaft  of 
his  ambition  was  only  to  please  her.  He  listened 
very  quietly  while  Messer  Guido  praised  him  so 
highly,  and  I,  for  my  part,  set  about  performing 
the  task  with  which  he  had  intrusted  me. 

I  did  not  know  at  the  time,  though  I  learned  it 
later,  that  my  mission,  if  not  forestalled,  had  in 
very  truth  been  rendered  much  easier  by  the  action 
of  another.  That  masked  youth  I  told  you  of, 
who  would  needs  have  Dante  read  his  own  poem 
that  none  there  knew  for  his,  was  no  other  a  person 
than  Monna  Vittoria.  Vittoria  had  ever  a  freakish 
humor  for  slipping  into  man's  apparel,  which  some 
of  her  friends  found  diverting  and  others  not,  as  the 
mood  took  them.  Madonna  Vittoria  took  it  into 
her  head  that  she  would  be  present  at  Messer  Folco's 
festival,  and  to  do  so  was  easy  enough  for  her  when 
once  she  had  clothed  her  shapely  body  in  the  habit 
of  a  cavalier,  and  flung  a  colored  cloak  about  her, 
and  curled  her  locks  up  under  a  cap,  and  clapped  a 
vizard  upon  her  face.  She  went  to  Messer  Folco's 
house  for  this  reason  most  of  all,  that  she  meant 
to  speak  with  Madonna  Beatrice,  a  thing  not 
169 


THE   GOD    OF    LOVE 

ordinarily  very  easy  to  come  at  for  such  as  she. 
Indeed,  there  was  no  risk  for  her  of  discovery, 
doing  what  she  did  in  the  way  she  did,  with  a  man's 
jacket  on  her  back  and  a  man's  hose  upon  her  legs. 

She  came,  as  it  seems,  upon  Beatrice  in  the  early 
hours  of  the  festival,  having  bided  her  time  till  she 
should  find  Folco's  daughter  alone  or  nearly  so, 
and  then  and  there  addressed  her  earnestly  with  a 
request  for  some  private  speech.  In  such  a  season 
of  merry-making  the  request  did  not  come  so 
strangely  from  a  masked  youth  as  to  seem  either 
insolent  or  unfitting.  But  Beatrice  knew  at  once 
that  the  voice  was  a  woman's,  and  so  said,  smiling- 
ly, as  she  drew  a  little  apart  with  her  challenger. 
Then  it  appears  that  Vittoria  unmasked  and  named 
herself,  and  that  Beatrice  looked  at  her  very  steadily 
and  gravely,  and  said  no  more  than  this:  "I  have 
heard  of  you.  You  are  very  beautiful,"  the  which 
words,  as  Vittoria  told  me  later,  gave  her  a  greater 
pleasure  than  any  she  had  ever  tasted  from  the 
praises  of  men's  lips. 

Vittoria  said,  "If  you  have  heard  of  me,  perhaps 
you  will  think  that  I  should  not  be  here  and  seeking 
speech  with  you." 

To  which  Beatrice  answered,  very  sweetly,  that 
it  was  no  part  of  the  law  of  her  life  to  deny  hearing 
to  one  that  wished  for  speech  with  her,  and  while 
she  spoke  she  was  still  smiling  kindly,  and  there 
was  no  anger  in  her  eyes  and  no  scorn,  but  only  a 
170 


GO-BETWEENS 

kind  of  sad  wonder.  Then  Vittoria  said  that  she 
had  made  bold  to  do  what  she  did  for  the  sake  of  a 
friend  and  for  the  sake  of  Beatrice  herself.  There- 
at the  manner  of  Beatrice,  albeit  still  courteous, 
grew  colder,  and  she  answered  that  she  did  not 
know  how  the  doings  of  any  friend  of  Vittoria's 
could  concern  her,  and  Vittoria  knew  that  she 
guessed  who  the  friend  was. 

Vittoria  said,  "The  friend  of  whom  I  speak,  the 
friend  whom  I  would  serve  with  you,  is  not  and 
never  has  been  more  than  my  friend." 

At  this  Beatrice  made  a  gesture  as  if  to  silence 
her  and  a  movement  as  if  to  leave  her. 

But  Vittoria  barred  her  way  and  delayed  her 
entreatingly,  saying,  "Do  not  scorn  me  because  I 
am  what  I  am." 

Whom,  thus  entreated,  Madonna  Beatrice  an- 
swered, very  gently:  "Indeed,  I  do  not  scorn  you  for 
being  what  your  are.  I  will  not  even  say  that  I  do 
not  understand  you,  for  I  have  it  in  my  heart  that 
a  woman  must  always  understand  a  woman,  how- 
ever different  the  way  of  the  one  may  be  from  the 
way  of  the  other.  And  it  might  very  well  have  hap- 
pened, if  our  upbringings  had  been  other,  that  you 
were  as  I  am  and  I  as  you." 

Vittoria  answered:  "I  think  not  so,  for  God  has 
so  made  you  that  you  would  never  care  for  the 
things  I  care  for,  and  God  has  so  made  me  that  I 
should  always  care  for  them." 
"  171 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

Beatrice  replied:  "Very  well,  then;  let  us  leave 
the  matter  with  God,  who  made  us,  and  say  to  me 
what  you  wish  to  say." 

Then  Vittoria  told  Beatrice  of  Dante,  how  he 
was  devoted  soul  and  body  to  Beatrice,  and  how  it 
was  only  in  consequence  of  Vittoria's  well-meant 
but  ill-proving  advice  that  he  at  all  sought  her 
society.  She  told  how  she  had  given  that  advice 
to  save  the  youth  from  the  hatred  of  Simone,  but 
had  not  told  him  this,  telling  him  rather  that  by  so 
doing  he  would  keep  his  love  for  Beatrice  a  secret 
from  the  world.  Then  the  paleness  of  Beatrice 
changed  for  a  little  to  a  soft  red,  and  Vittoria  saw 
that  she  believed,  and  kissed  her  hand  and  left  her. 
Thus  it  came  about  that  my  labor  was  already 
lightened,  though  I  knew  it  not  when  I  set  out  to 
seek  for  Beatrice  on  behalf  of  my  friend. 

The  good  chance  that  sometimes  favors  the  am- 
bassadors of  Love  served  me  in  good  stead  very 
presently  by  affording  me  occasion  to  approach 
Madonna  Beatrice  and  engage  her  in  speech,  for 
she  was  ever  courteous  in  her  bearing  toward  her 
father's  guests.  After  we  had  discoursed  for  a  brief 
while  on  trifles,  I,  rinding  thai:  where  we  stood 
and  talked  I  might  speak  with  little  fear  of  being 
overheard,  straightway  disclosed  my  mission  to  her, 
and  delivered  my  errand,  putting  it,  as  I  think, 
in  words  no  less  apt  than  choice,  and  making  a  very 
proper  plea  for  my  friend,  presenting,  indeed,  his 
172 


GO-BETWEENS 

petition  so  well  that,  though  I  say  it  who,  perhaps, 
should  not  say  it,  I  do  not  think  that  he  could  have 
done  it  any  better  himself.  I  made  bold  to  add 
that  my  friend  went  in  fear  that  he  had  in  some 
way  offended  her,  but  that  I  was  very  sure  he 
would  be  able  to  excuse  himself  to  her  eyes  if 
only  she  would  afford  him  the  opportunity  to  do  so. 

Madonna  Beatrice  listened  to  me  very  quietly 
while  I  delivered  myself  of  my  message  and  of  such 
embroideries  of  my  own  as  I  saw  fit  to  tag  on  to  its 
original  simplicity,  and  though  I  thought  I  could 
discern  that  she  was  affected  not  unkindly  toward 
my  friend,  in  spite  of  whatever  fault  he  might  have 
committed,  she  did  not  in  any  way  change  color 
or  display  any  other  of  those  signals  by  which  ladies 
are  accustomed  to  make  manifest  their  agitation 
when  any  whisper  of  love  business  is  in  the  air. 
When  I  had  finished,  she  did  no  more  at  first  than 
to  ask  me  if,  indeed,  Messer  Dante  was  the  un- 
known poet  who  had  so  delighted  Florence. 

To  which  question  I  made  answer  that  the  truth 
was  indeed  so,  at  which  assurance  she  seemed  to 
me  at  first  to  smile,  and  then  to  look  sad,  and  then 
to  smile  again.  But  when  I  was  beginning  to  utter 
some  golden  words  in  the  praise  of  my  friend's 
verses,  she  very  sweetly  but  very  surely  cut  my 
compliments  short,  and  gave  me  the  answer  to  my 
embassy. 

"Tell  Messer  Dante,"  she  said,  "that  he  is  so 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

great  a  poet  that  it  were  scarcely  gracious  for  me 
to  refuse  him  the  favor  he  asks,  though,  indeed, 
he  must  know  as  well  as  I  know  that  it  is  no  small 
favor.  It  is  not  perhaps  fitting,  and  it  certainly  is 
not  easy,  for  a  maiden  to  accord  a  lonely  meeting  to 
a  youth,  even  when  that  youth  has  some  reason  to 
call  himself  the  maiden's  friend.  But  I  shall  retire 
before  this  festival  comes  to  an  end,  and  I  shall 
walk  awhile  on  the  loggia  above  in  the  moonlight 
and  the  sweet  air  before  going  to  my  sleep.  If  he 
will  come  to  me  there  I  will  speak  with  him  and 
hear  him  speak  for  a  little  while.  Tell  him  I  do  this 
for  the  sake  of  his  verses." 

Therewith  she  made  me  a  suave  salutation  and 
turned  to  speak  to  another,  and  I,  finding  myself  thus 
amiably  dismissed,  and  being  very  well  satisfied  with 
the  fruits  of  my  enterprise,  bowed  very  lowly  before 
her,  and  turned  and  went  my  ways,  seeking  my 
friend.  Soon  I  found  him  with  many  youths  and 
elders  about  him,  all  as  eager  as  Guido  had  been 
to  congratulate  him  on  what  he  had  done.  But  if 
Dante  seemed  pleased  to  hear  their  praises,  as  it 
was  only  right  he  should  seem  pleased,  he  showed 
still  greater  pleasure  in  beholding  me  and  reading 
the  message  of  my  smiling  face. 

He  made  some  excuse  for  quitting  his  company 

and  drawing  apart  with  me,  and  when  he  had  heard 

what  I  had  got  to  say,  I  think  that  he  looked  the 

happiest  man  that  I  had  ever  seen.     "Heaven  bless 

'74 


GO-BETWEENS 

my  lady  Beatrice  for  her  sovereign  grace,"  he  said, 
very  softly  and  earnestly,  and  then  he  wrung  me 
very  hard  by  the  hand,  and  left  me  and  went  back 
to  his  admirers,  and  thereafter,  during  the  progress 
of  the  night's  pleasures,  I  saw  him  move  and  take 
his  share  with  an  unwonted  brightness  of  counte- 
nance and  mirthfulness  of  bearing,  and  I  was  glad 
with  all  my  heart  to  see  him  so  cheerful. 

Indeed,  that  was  a  cheering  time,  and  the  man  or 
woman  would  have  been  hard  to  please  who  found 
nothing  to  delight  or  to  amuse  at  Messer  Folco's 
festival.  To  speak  for  myself,  I  had  never  known 
better  diversion.  There  was  a  whole  world  of 
pretty  women  assembled  within  Messer  Folco's 
walls,  and  I  may  as  well  confess  here,  if  I  have  not 
confessed  it  already,  that  I  take  great  delectation 
in  the  companionship  of  pretty  women.  How  many 
little  hands,  I  wonder,  did  I  press  that  night,  with 
the  tenderest  protestations  ?  How  many  kisses,  I 
wonder,  did  I  venture  to  steal,  or,  rather,  pretend 
to  steal  ?  for  I  swear  the  dainty  rogues  met  me  half 
way  in  the  matter  of  the  robbery.  Well,  well,  it 
was  all  very  merry  and  pleasant,  and  we  feasted 
very  gayly,  and  we  danced  very  nimbly,  and  we 
wandered  in  the  green  glooms  of  the  garden,  and 
then  we  feasted  anew,  and  after  that  we  set  to  work 
to  dancing  in  good  earnest.  Save  for  a  few,  we  all 
danced  and  danced  and  danced  again,  as  if  we 
could  dance  the  world  back  into  its  young-time. 
175 


XIV 

MESSER   SIMONE    SPOILS    SPORT 

THE  dance  was  at  the  very  top  of  its  progress; 
all  the  youths  and  maidens  were  bright  and 
smiling;  the  musicians  scraped  and  plucked  like 
mad,  and  the  strings  quivered  with  happy  melody. 
All  about  against  the  wall  the  elders  ranged  at  gaze, 
recalling  wistfully  or  cheerfully,  according  to  their 
temperaments,  the  days  when  they,  too,  tripped 
lightly  to  music  and  made  love  in  a  measure,  and 
some  old  toes  ached  for  a  caper.  While  the  mirth 
was  at  its  blithest  there  suddenly  came  an  inter- 
ruption to  the  gayety,  and  in  a  twink,  one  knew  not 
how,  the  dance  that  had  been  so  jovial  and  har- 
monious seemed  suddenly  resolved  into  its  individ- 
ual elements,  so  many  youths  and  men,  and  so 
many  maids  and  matrons  staring  at  the  thing  that 
had  thus  suddenly  marred  their  pleasure.  I,  that 
had  been  placed  by  chance  at  a  post  in  the  dance 
the  most  removed  from  the  main  door  of  the  apart- 
ment, was  not  at  first  aware  of  what  had  caused 
the  commotion  among  the  dancers;  I  was  only 
aware  of  the  commotion  and  the  pause  in  the 
176 


MESSER   SIMONE   SPOILS    SPORT 

dancing  and  the  knowledge  that  the  faces  of  those 
near  to  me  showed  surprise  or  fear  or  wonder,  ac- 
cording to  their  instinct.  Meanwhile  the  musicians 
in  their  gallery,  knowing  nothing  of  any  reason 
why  they  should  stop,  were  still  twitching  their 
strings  busily,  though  no  one  marked  them  and  no 
one  danced  to  their  music.  But  I,  being  resolved 
to  argue,  as  it  were,  from  the  effect  to  the  cause, 
pushed  my  way  through  the  men  and  women  that 
were  huddled  together  in  my  neighborhood,  and 
then  I  came  to  an  open  space  of  the  floor,  and  face 
to  face,  at  a  distance,  with  the  cause  of  the  dis- 
turbance. 

This  cause  was  Messer  Simone  dei  Bardi,  who 
was  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  room  with  Messer 
Folco  Portinari  and  other  grave  elders  about  him, 
and  he  was  talking  in  a  loud  voice,  as  it  were,  to 
them  in  particular,  but  also  in  general  to  the  as- 
sembled company.  Now,  I  had  never  in  all  my 
life  felt  any  kindly  liking  for  Messer  Simone,  but  I 
had  to  confess  to  myself  that  he  cut  something  of  a 
flourishing  figure  just  then  and  just  there.  While 
all  of  us  that  were  gathered  under  Messer  Folco's 
roof  were  habited  in  our  best  bravery  of  velvets  and 
soft  stuffs  and  furs  and  such  gold  trinkets  and 
jewels  at  it  were  in  our  power  to  display,  and  so 
looked  very  frivolous  and  foppish  and  at  ease, 
Messer  Simone  dei  Bardi  came  among  us  clad  as  a 
soldier-citizen  of  a  great  Republic  should  be  clad 
177 


THE    GOD   OF    LOVE 

in  time  of  danger  to  his  nation.  His  huge  bulk  was 
built  about  in  steel,  a  great  sword  swung  at  his  side, 
and  though  his  head  was  bare,  a  page  in  his  livery 
stood  close  behind  him  resting  his  master's  helmet 
in  the  bend  of  his  arm.  So  lapped  in  mail,  so  men- 
acing in  carriage,  Simone  might  have  seemed  some 
truculent  effigy  of  the  god  Mars  suddenly  appearing 
from  the  riven  earth  in  a  pastoral  gallantry  of 
shepherds  and  shepherdesses. 

What  he  was  saying  he  was  saying  very  clearly 
with  the  purpose  that  all  should  hear,  and  I  among 
the  rest  benefited  by  what  he  said.  It  was  to  this 
effect:  that  our  enemies  the  Aretines  were  planning 
a  secret  stroke  at  Florence,  knowledge  of  which 
had  come  to  his  patriotic  ears;  and  according  to  the 
estimation  of  his  mind,  it  was  no  time  for  Floren- 
tine citizens  to  be  singing  and  dancing  and  making 
merry  when  there  was  a  stroke  to  be  struck  with 
a  strong  hand  against  her  enemies. 

These  bellicose,  words  of  Messer  Simone  found 
their  immediate  echo  in  the  hearts  of  all  men 
present;  for  to  do  us  Florentines  justice,  we  have 
never  loved  frolicking  so  much  that  we  did  not  like 
fighting  a  great  deal  better,  and  we  have  never  had 
private  business  or  private  pleasure  which  we  were 
not  ready  at  a  moment's  notice  to  thrust  on  one 
side  when  the  great  bell  of  the  city  sounded  its 
warning  of  danger  to  the  Republic.  So  for  the  im- 
mediate time  Messer  Simone  was  the  hour's  hero, 
178 


MESSER   SIMONE   SPOILS   SPORT 

and  dancing  and  banqueting  and  laughing  and 
love-making  were  clean  forgotten,  and  every  youth 
and  every  mature  man  there  present,  and,  for  that 
matter,  every  elder,  too,  was  eager  to  ring  himself 
in  steel  and  to  teach  the  devils  of  Arezzo  of  what 
stuff  a  Florentine  citizen  was  made.  I  must  honest- 
ly and  soberly  confess  that  I  myself  was  so  readily 
intoxicated  with  the  heady  wine  of  the  excitement 
about  me  that  I  found  myself  cheering  and  shout- 
ing as  lustily  as  the  rest,  for  the  which  I  do  not 
blame  myself,  and  that  I  found  myself  for  the  mo- 
ment regarding  Messer  Simone  dei  Bardi  as  a  kind 
of  hero,  for  the  which  I  severely  blame  myself 
even  now,  after  all  this  lapse  of  years. 

When  Messer  Simone  found  that  he  had  got  the 
company,  so  to  speak,  in  the  hollow  of  his  hands, 
he  was  silent  for  a  little  while,  looking  about  him 
sharply,  as  if  he  were  making  sure  of  the  courage 
and  enthusiasm  of  his  fellow-citizens,  and  seeking 
to  find  in  the  press  of  flushed  and  eager  faces  any 
countenance  that  seemed  unwilling  to  answer  to 
his  call.  All  about  him  the  elders  of  the  city  were 
gathered  giving  and  taking  counsel,  giving,  I  think 
for  the  most  part,  more  readily  than  taking,  and 
hurriedly  revolving  in  their  minds  what  were  best 
to  do  for  the  city  in  the  crisis  that  Messer  Simone 
had  made  plain  to  them.  While  these  deliberations 
went  on,  we  that  had  been  dancing  danced  no 
longer,  nor  had  desire  to  dance,  and  though  some 
179 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

talked  among  themselves,  the  main  kept  silence,  for 
the  most  part  waiting  upon  events.  By  this  time, 
my  wits  having  grown  cooler  and  my  old  distrust 
of  Messer  Simone  being  resuscitated,  I  scrutinized 
him  closely  as  he  stood  there  in  his  steel  coats,  the 
centre  figure  of  the  assembly. 

As  I  looked  at  Messer  Simone  where  he  stood 
there,  girt  with  strength  in  every  line  of  his  body, 
in  every  curl  of  his  crisp  hair  and  short  beard,  in 
the  watchful  ferocity  of  his  eyes,  he  seemed  to  me 
a  kind  of  symbol  of  what  man  may  be  who  is  un- 
lifted  by  any  inspiration  of  divinity  or  tincture  of 
letters  from  the  common  herd.  In  him  brute 
strength,  brutish  desires,  brutal  passions  were  pre- 
sented, so  it  seemed  to  my  fancy,  as  a  kind  of  warn- 
ing to  others  of  what  man  may  be  that  is  content 
to  be  merely  man,  with  no  higher  thought  in  him 
than  the  gratification  of  his  instincts  and  his  im- 
pulses. I  have  heard  tell  in  travellers'  tales  of 
strange  lands,  beneath  fiercer  suns  than  ours,  where 
naked  savages  disport  themselves  with  the  lawless 
assurance  of  wild  beasts,  and  it  seemed  to  me — 
being  always  given  to  speculation — that  Messer 
Simone,  if  he  found  himself  in  such  a  company, 
would  never  be  at  a  loss,  but  would  straightway  be 
admitted  to  their  ruffian  fellowship.  I  think,  in- 
deed, he  would  be  better  suited  for  such  companion- 
ship than  for  citizenship  of  the  fair,  the  wise,  the 
gifted,  the  civilized  queen-city  of  Florence.  But 
180 


MESSER   SIMONE   SPOILS   SPORT 

even  as  such  savages  are  reported  to  have,  in  place 
of  a  higher  wit,  such  natural  craft  as  Providence 
has  implanted  in  the  hearts  of  foxes  and  hyenas 
and  other  such  wild  beasts,  so  Messer  Simone,  for 
all  his  bestiality,  could  be  cunning  enough  when 
it  served  his  ends,  as  you  shall  presently  learn. 

In  a  little  while  Messer  Simone  began  to  speak 
again,  and  to  tell  his  hearers  of  the  plan  which  he 
had  formed  for  the  service  of  Florence  and  the 
confusion  of  her  enemies.  This  plan,  as  you  al- 
ready know,  was  to  be  furthered  by  the  enrollment 
of  all  such  among  the  youth  of  Florence  as  desired 
to  prove  themselves  true  patriots  into  a  body  which 
was  to  be  known  by  the  high-sounding  name  of  the 
Company  of  Death,  the  meaning  of  this  title  being 
that  those  who  so  enrolled  themselves  were  pre- 
pared at  any  moment  to  give  their  lives  for  the  ad- 
vantage of  the  mother-city.  Messer  Simone's  plan 
had,  as  we  now  learned,  been  applauded  by  all  the 
magnates,  such  as  Messer  Corso  Donati  and  Messer 
Vieri  dei  Cerchi,  and  had  received  the  approval  of 
the  priors  of  the  city.  As  the  scheme  was  due  to 
Messer  Simone,  it  was  agreed  on  all  hands  that  he 
should  be  its  leader  so  long  as  the  Republic  of 
Florence  was  in  a  state  of  war.  Whoever  had 
taught  him  his  lesson,  Messer  Simone  had  learned 
it  creditably  enough.  He  talked  well,  and  while 
you  listened  to  him  it  was  hard  not  to  feel  that  the 
Company  of  Death  was  indeed  a  very  noble  and 
181 


THE    GOD    OF   LOVE 

hopeful  thought,  and  that  it  might  very  well  be  the 
duty  of  all  honorable  patriots  to  join  it.  But  such 
thoughts  might  have  cooled  off  under  reflection  and 
deliberation  if  Messer  Simone  had  not  been  at  the 
pains  to  prevent  reflection  and  deliberation  by  a 
cunning  stroke  of  policy. 

So  he  pitched  his  loud  voice  some  notes  higher, 
bellowing  like  a  bull  of  Bashan  as  he  rolled  off 
sonorous  sentences  very  deftly  learned  and  remem- 
bered, in  which  glory  and  the  service  of  the  state 
and  the  example  of  old  Rome  were  cleverly  com- 
pounded into  a  most  patriotic  pasty.  Even  as  he 
was  in  the  thick  of  his  speaking  there  came  a 
flourish  of  trumpets  at  the  door,  and  to  the  sound 
of  that  music  there  came  into  the  room  a  brace  of 
pages  that  were  habited  in  cloth  of  gold,  and  that 
bore  on  their  breasts  the  badge  that  showed  them 
to  be  the  servants  of  Messer  Simone.  This  pair 
of  pages  carried  between  them  a  mighty  gold 
charger,  and  on  this  charger  lay  a  huge  book  of 
white  vellum  that  was  bound  and  clasped  in  gold. 
These  pages  were  followed  by  other  two  pages, 
one  of  whom  carried  ink  in  a  great  golden  ink-horn 
and  sand  in  a  golden  basin,  while  the  other  bore 
a  kind  of  golden  quiver  that  was  stuffed  full,  not 
indeed  of  arrows,  but  of  quills  of  the  gray  goose. 
When  this  little  company  of  pages  had  come  anigh 
to  Messer  Simone,  who  seemed  to  greet  their  ap- 
proach with  great  satisfaction,  the  pages  that  car- 
182 


MESSER   SIMONE   SPOILS   SPORT 

ried  the  book  stood  before  their  master,  and  Simone, 
stooping  to  the  charger,  unclasped  the  great  book 
and  flung  it  open  and  showed  that  its  leaves  were 
white  and  fair.  The  book-bearers  supported  the 
book  so  open,  on  the  charger,  making  themselves 
into  a  living  desk,  and  he  that  carried  the  ink  and 
sand  and  he  that  carried  the  quills  came  along- 
side of  them,  and  stood  quietly,  waiting  for  their 
work  to  begin. 

Then  Messer  Simone  struck  with  his  open  palm 
upon  the  smooth,  fair  parchment,  and  cried  aloud 
that  in  time  to  come  this  book  would  prove  to  be 
one  of  the  city's  most  precious  possessions,  for  it 
was  to  be  the  abiding  record  of  those  noble-souled 
patriots  who  had  enrolled  their  names  upon  the 
roll-call  of  the  Company  of  Death.  And  he  said 
again  that  such  a  book  would  be,  indeed,  a  catalogue 
of  heroes;  and  after  much  more  talk  to  this  pur- 
pose, he  called  upon  all  those  present  that  had 
high  hearts  and  loved  their  mother-city  to  come 
forward  and  inscribe  their  names,  to  their  own 
eternal  honor,  upon  the  pages  of  the  there  presented 
volume. 

Now  at  this  there  came  a  great  shout  of  applause 
from  many  that  listened  to  Messer  Simone,  and  be- 
cause men  in  such  an  assemblage,  at  such  an  hour, 
in  such  a  mood  of  merry-making,  are  little  likely 
to  prove  thoughtful  critics  of  what  may  be  said  by 
a  big  voice  using  big  words,  it  seemed  to  many  of 
183 


THE   GOD  OF   LOVE 

those  there  standing  that  Messer  Simone's  scheme 
of  the  Company  of  Death  was  the  best  that  had 
ever  been  schemed  for  the  salvation  of  the  city, 
and  that  to  write  one's  name  on  the  pages  of  Messer 
Simone's  book  was  the  noblest  duty  and  proudest 
privilege  of  a  true  citizen. 

There  was  a  great  hurrying  and  scurrying  on  the 
part  of  those  that  stood  around  to  get  to  the  book 
and  borrow  quill  and  ink  from  the  attendant  pages, 
and  be  among  the  earliest  to  deserve  the  honorable 
immortality  that  Messer  Simone  promised.  There 
were  certain  restrictions,  so  Messer  Simone  ex- 
plained, attendant  upon  the  formation  of  the  Com- 
pany of  Death.  Its  members  must  be  young  men 
of  no  less  than  eighteen  and  no  more  than  thirty 
years  of  age.  You  will  bear  in  mind  that  Messer 
Dante  was  but  just  turned  eighteen,  and  that 
Messer  Guido  was  in  his  eight-and-twentieth  year. 
But  no  one  thought  of  that  at  the  time,  not  even  I, 
though  it  showed  plain  enough  to  me  afterward. 
Furthermore,  the  Companions  were  to  be  all  un- 
married men,  such  as  therefore  were  free  to  dedi- 
cate their  lives  to  the  cause  of  their  country  with  a 
readiness  that  was  not  to  be  expected  or  called  for 
from  men  that  had  wives  and  families. 

While    Messer    Simone    thus    explained,    youth 

after  youth  of  the  young  gentlemen  of  Florence, 

both  of  the  Reds  and  of  the  Yellows,  came  forward 

and  wrote  their  names  with  great  zeal  and  many 

184 


MESSER   SIMONE   SPOILS   SPORT 

flourishes  on  the  smooth,  white  parchment,  and  soon 
the  white  leaves  began  to  be  covered  thick  with 
names,  and  still  the  would-be  votaries  came 
crowding  about  the  ink-bearer  and  the  pen-bearer, 
and  catching  at  the  quills  and  dipping  them  in  the 
ink.  As  fast  as  a  sheet  was  filled  the  attendant 
would  spill  a  stream  of  golden  sand  over  the  wet 
inscription  and  make  ready  a  fresh  sheet  for  the 
feverish  enthusiasm  of  the  signatories. 

After  a  while  Messer  Simone  called  a  halt  in  the 
business  of  signing,  and  now  he  began  to  speak 
anew,  and  though  his  voice  was  rough  and  harsh 
from  all  the  talk  that  he  had  talked  before,  and 
though  he  rather  growled  his  words  than  gave 
them  liberal  utterance,  yet  what  he  said  was  what 
he  wanted  to  say,  and  came  from  his  black  heart 
with  a  very  damnable  aptness.  He  was  speaking 
in  the  praise  of  those  Florentine  youths  that  had 
first  enrolled  their  names  in  the  book  of  the  Com- 
pany of  Death,  and  he  was  praising  them  ostenta- 
tiously for  their  valor  and  their  patriotism,  and  yet 
while  he  praised,  I,  listening,  thought  that  his 
praises  were  not  very  good  to  get,  though  some  share 
of  them  was  due  to  me  who  had  written  my  name 
on  the  pages  of  the  big  book,  partly  because  I  had 
drunk  much  wine,  and  partly  because  I  could  never 
resist  the  contagion  of  any  enthusiasm,  and  partly 
because  the  pretty  girl  that  was  by  my  side — I 
forget  her  name  now — egged  me  on  to  the  folly. 
185 


THE    GOD   OF   LOVE 

After  Simone  had  made  an  end  of  his  laudations, 
he  came  to  speak  with  a  rough  scorn  of  those  that 
were  content  to  show  their  devotion  to  their  mother- 
city  by  no  greater  sacrifice  than  the  serving  to 
defend  her  in  case  of  an  attack.  While  he  spoke 
I  could  see  that  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  face 
of  Dante,  where  he  stood  a  little  apart  and  watched 
and  listened.  I  had  lost  thought  of  Dante  in  my 
merry-makings  and  lost  sight  of  him  in  the  hurly- 
burly,  and  now  suddenly  I  saw  him  leaning  against 
a  pillar  a  little  apart,  and  looking  at  the  eager  crowd 
of  youths  and  Simone  that  was  its  central  figure. 
If  I  had  been  a  painter  like  Messer  Giotto  it  would 
have  pleased  me  to  paint  in  the  same  picture  the 
faces  of  those  two  men,  the  one  no  more  than  beastly 
flesh,  and  the  other,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  the  iron 
lamp  in  which  a  sacred  spirit  burned  unceasingly, 
purifying  with  its  glowing  flame  the  human  taber- 
nacle. Then  Messer  Simone  gave  a  short  laugh, 
and  said,  mockingly,  that  such  stay-at-home  tactics 
were  well  enough  for  puling  fellows  that  liked  to 
lie  snug  behind  city  walls  and  write  puling  sonnets, 
and  would  rather  be  busy  with  such  petty  business 
than  risk  their  fine  skins  in  brisk  adventures. 

Now,  as  for  the  taunt  in  Messer  Simone's  speech, 
it  was,  as  who  should  say,  an  arrow  that  might  have 
been  aimed  at  the  heart  of  many  there,  even  at  my 
own  poor  heart,  for  I  was  myself  an  indifferent 
poet,  as  you  know  by  this  time  if  you  have  not 
1 86 


MESSER   SIMONE   SPOILS   SPORT 

known  it  before.  But  I  knew  that  Messer  Simone 
had  no  thought  of  me  when  he  spoke,  for  indeed  I 
do  not  think  he  thought  of  me  at  all,  and  for  my 
part  I  thought  of  him  as  little  as  I  could  help,  for  I 
have  no  love  for  ugliness.  Messer  Guido  Caval- 
canti,  who  was  also  there,  he,  too,  was  a  poet,  and  a 
great  poet,  but  it  was  not  of  him  that  Messer  Simone 
spoke,  and  if  it  had  been  it  would  not  have  mattered, 
for  Messer  Guido  would  have  cared  no  whit  for 
what  Messer  Simone  said  of  him  or  thought  of  him, 
and  now  as  Simone  spoke,  Guido  only  stood  there 
and  laughed  in  his  face,  swaying  gently  with  the 
laughter. 

Messer  Guido  despised  Simone  dei  Bardi,  think- 
ing him,  what  indeed  he  was,  a  vulgar  fellow,  and 
making  no  concealment  of  his  thought,  and  what 
Messer  Guido  thought  counted  in  Florence  in  those 
days,  for  he  came  of  a  great  race  and  was  himself  a 
very  free-hearted  and  noble  gentleman,  against 
whom  no  man  had  anything  to  say  save  this,  that 
it  was  whispered  that  he  did  not  believe  as  a  devout 
man  should  believe.  This  tale,  for  my  part,  I  hold 
to  be  exaggeration,  thinking  that  Messer  Guido, 
in  the  curious  clarity  and  balance  of  his  mind,  was 
less  of  a  sceptic  than  of  a  man  who  should  say,  stand- 
ing in  a  strange  country,  "I  do  not  know  whither 
my  road  shall  lead  me,  and  therefore  I  will  not  say 
that  I  do  know." 

Anyway,  it  was  not  with  Messer  Guido  Caval- 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

canti  that  Messer  Simone  del  Bardi  would  have 
chosen  to  quarrel,  unless  the  quarrel  were  forced 
upon  him,  and  then  I  will  do  him  the  justice  to  say 
that  he  would  have  fought  for  his  cause  like  the  un- 
tamable male  thing  he  was.  But  he  had  set  his 
eyes  evilly  upon  Messer  Dante  while  he  had  been 
speaking,  and  he  kept  them  fixed  on  Messer  Dante's 
face  now  that  he  had  made  an  end  of  speaking. 
I  saw  that  Dante's  face  flushed  a  little,  even  to  the 
hair  above  the  high  forehead,  and  his  eyes  for  a 
moment  seemed  to  widen  and  brighten  like  those  of 
some  fierce,  brave  bird.  Then  he  pushed  his  way 
to  the  front  of  the  company  and  looked  up  at  Simone 
steadfastly,  and  his  arms  were  still  folded  across 
his  body  and  his  sharp-featured  face  was  tense 
with  suppressed  rage,  and  he  spoke  very  quickly 
but  clearly,  too,  for  all  the  quickness  of  his  words. 

What  he  said  was  to  this  effect:  "Messer 
Simone,  I  thank  Heaven  that  it  may  be  possible 
for  a  man  to  write  verses  in  the  praise  of  his  sweet 
lady  and  to  draw  sword  in  the  service  of  his  sweet 
city.  Because  I  think  that  no  man  can  honor  his 
lady  better  than  in  honoring  the  city  that  is  blessed 
in  giving  her  birth  and  blessed  in  sheltering  her 
beauty,  I  hereby  very  cheerfully  and  joyously  give 
my  name  to  be  written  on  the  list  of  the  Company 
of  Death." 

Thereat  there  was  a  great  cheering  and  shouting 
on  the  part  of  the  younger  men,  and  they  gathered 
1 88 


MESSER   SIMONE   SPOILS   SPORT 

about  Dante,  hotly  applauding  him.  My  heart  was 
heavy  within  me,  for  I  looked  at  the  face  of  Simone 
dei  Bardi  and  saw  that  it  shone  with  pleasure, 
and  I  looked  at  the  face  of  Guido  Cavalcanti  and 
saw  that  it  was  gray  with  pain,  and  I  knew  that 
Messer  Simone  had  gained  his  purpose.  As  I 
looked  from  face  to  face  of  the  two  men  that  made 
such  ill-matched  enemies,  Messer  Guido  Caval- 
canti came  forward,  and,  taking  a  quill  from  him 
that  held  them,  wrote  his  name  on  the  book  of  the 
Company  of  Death,  just  below  the  name  of  Dante. 


XV 

A   SPY  IN  THE   NIGHT 

MESSER  SIMONE  had  in  his  service,  as  you 
know  already  who  have  read  this  record  of 
mine,  a  fellow  named  Maleotti  that  was  of  great 
use  to  his  master — a  brisk,  insidious  villain  that  was 
ever  on  good  terms  with  all  the  world,  and  never 
on  such  good  terms  with  a  man  as  when  he  was 
minded  to  do  him  an  ill  turn,  assuming,  of  course, 
that  such  ill  turn  was  to  his  own  advantage  or  in 
the  service  of  his  master,  Messer  Simone  dei  Bardi. 
To  Messer  Simone  this  fellow  Maleotti  was  alto- 
gether devoted,  as,  indeed,  he  had  a  right  to  be,  for 
Simone  was  a  good  paymaster  to  all  those  that 
served  him,  and  he  knew  the  value  of  Maleotti's 
tongue  when  it  had  a  lying  tale  to  tell,  and  Male- 
otti's hand  when  it  had  a  knife  in  it  and  a  man  to 
be  killed  standing  or  lying  near  to  its  point. 

This  Maleotti  wisely,  from  his  point  of  view, 
made  it  his  business  not  merely  to  serve  Messer 
Simone  to  the  best  of  his  ability  in  those  things 
in  which  Messer  Simone  directly  demanded  his 
obedience  and  intelligence,  but  he  also  was  quick 
190 


A   SPY   IN   THE    NIGHT 

to  be  of  use  to  him  in  matters  concerning  which 
Messer  Simone  was  either  ignorant  or  gave  no 
direct  instructions.  It  was  Maleotti's  pleasure  to 
mingle  amid  crowds  and  overhear  talk,  on  the  chance 
of  gleaning  some  knowledge  which  might  be  ser- 
viceable to  his  patron,  and,  indeed,  in  this  way  it 
was  said  that  he  had  heard  not  a  few  things  spoken 
heedlessly  about  Messer  Simone  which  were  duly 
carried  to  Messer  Simone's  ears,  and  wrought  their 
speakers  much  mischief.  Also  he  would,  if  he  could 
find  himself  in  company  where  his  person  and  ser- 
vice were  unknown,  in  the  wine-house  or  elsewhere, 
endeavor  to  engage  those  about  him  in  conversa- 
tion which  he  would  ever  lead  deftly  to  the  subject 
of  his  master  and  his  master's  purpose,  and  so  win 
by  a  side  wind,  as  it  were,  a  knowledge  of  Floren- 
tine opinion  that  more  than  once  had  been  valuable 
to  Simone. 

Now  it  had  occurred  to  this  fellow,  since  the 
beginning  of  the  feud  between  Simone  dei  Bardi 
and  Dante  dei  Alighieri,  that  it  would  be  to  his 
master's  advantage,  and  to  his  own,  if  thereby  he 
pleased  his  master,  that  he  should  set  himself 
to  spy  upon  Messer  Dante  and  keep  him  as  fre- 
quently as  might  be  under  his  eye.  It  was  thus 
that  Messer  Simone  came  to  know — what,  indeed, 
was  no  secret — that  our  Dante  had  devoted  himself 
very  busily  to  the  practice  of  arms,  and  was  making 
great  progress  therein.  But  this  information,  as  I 
191 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

learned  afterward,  did  little  more  than  to  tickle 
Messer  Simone  and  make  him  grin,  for  he  believed 
that  he  was  invincible  in  arms,  and  that  no  man 
could  stand  against  him,  in  which  belief  he  was 
somewhat  excused  by  his  long  record  of  successes, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  no  more  than  a  sorry  joke 
that  a  lad  and  a  scholar  like  Dante  should  really 
pit  his  pigmy  self  against  Simone's  giantship.  It 
was  no  information  of  Maleotti's  that  told  Simone 
the  truth  about  the  unknown  poet.  That,  as  you 
know,  he  found  out  for  himself,  and  if  he  did  but 
despise  any  skill  that  Dante  might  attain  in  arms, 
he  had  the  clumsy  man's  horror  of  the  thing  he 
could  not  understand,  of  the  art  of  weaving  words 
together  to  praise  fair  ladies  and  win  their  hearts. 
Maleotti  did  not  know  what  his  master  knew,  there- 
fore, about  Dante,  but  he  came  to  know  it  on  this 
night.  For  Maleotti  was  among  the  hearers  when 
Dante,  yielding  to  Messer  Guido's  insistence,  con- 
sented to  read  the  verses  of  the  unknown  poet, 
and  his  quick  eyes  had  been  as  keen  as  Messer 
Guido's  to  understand  the  meaning  of  Dante's 
change  of  voice  and  color  when  Madonna  Beatrice 
came  into  the  room. 

Now  this  fellow  Maleotti,  having,  as  it  seems, 
nothing  better  to  do  with  his  petty  existence,  must 
have  judged,  after  this  discovery,  that  it  might 
please  his  master  in  some  fashion  to  keep  an  eye 
upon  Messer  Dante  what  time  he  was  the  guest  of 
192 


A   SPY   IN   THE    NIGHT 

Messer  Folco  of  the  Portinari  on  that  evening  of 
high  summer.  And  I  believe  it  to  be  little  less  than 
certain  that  he  must  have  observed  the  meeting  and 
the  greeting  between  Monna  Beatrice  and  me, 
although  it  is  no  less  certain  that  he  could  have 
heard  none  of  our  speech.  So  when  our  speech, 
whatever  it  was,  for  it  was  all  nothing  to  Maleotti, 
had  come  to  an  end,  and  I  had  glided  quietly  away 
from  Madonna  Beatrice  and  carried  her  message 
to  my  friend,  the  Maleotti  rascal  still  continued  his 
observation  of  Messer  Dante  and  his  actions. 

As  I  learned  afterward  from  one  to  whom 
Maleotti  told  the  matter,  he  saw  at  a  later  hour 
Messer  Dante  linger  for  a  while  in  the  garden  as 
one  that  is  lost  in  thought.  Maleotti  swore  that  he 
seemed  all  of  a  sudden  to  stiffen  where  he  stood, 
even  as  a  man  in  a  catalepsy  might  do,  and  that  he 
stood  so  rigid  and  tense  for  the  space,  as  it  seemed 
to  Maleotti,  of  several  minutes,  though  why  he 
stood  so  or  what  the  cause  of  his  immobility  this 
Maleotti  could  in  nowise  conjecture.  I,  of  course, 
know  very  well  that  this  was  one  of  the  moments 
when  the  God  of  Love  made  itself  manifest  to  him. 
But  after  a  while,  as  he  affirmed  that  told  it  to  me, 
Messer  Dante  seemed  to  shake  off  the  trance  or 
whatever  it  was  that  held  him  possessed,  and  then, 
moving  with  the  strange  steadiness  of  one  that 
walks  in  his  sleep,  made  through  the  most  lonely 
part  of  the  garden  for  that  wing  of  the  house  of 
193 


THE   GOD    OF   LOVE 

Messer  Folco  where  Madonna  Beatrice  was 
lodged.  Maleotti,  creeping  very  stealthily  at  his 
heels,  saw  how  he  came,  after  a  space,  to  a  little 
gate  in  the  wall,  and  how,  as  it  seemed  to  Maleotti, 
the  gate  lay  open  before  him,  and  how  Messer  Dante 
straightway  passed  through  the  open  gateway  and 
so  out  of  his  sight. 

Now  Maleotti,  who  was  as  familiar  with  the 
house  of  Messer  Folco  as  he  was  with  his  own 
garret  in  the  dwelling  of  Messer  Simone  dei  Bardi, 
knew  that  this  gateway  gave  on  a  winding  flight 
of  stairs  that  led  to  an  open  loggia,  on  the  farther 
side  of  which  lay  the  door  of  Madonna  Beatrice's 
apartments.  Whereupon  it  pleased  this  Maleotti, 
putting  two  and  two  together,  after  the  manner  of 
his  kind,  and  making  God  knows  what  of  them, 
to  be  quick  with  villanous  suspicions  and  to  be 
pricked  with  a  violent  desire  to  let  his  master  know 
what  had  happened,  partly,  as  I  believe,  knowing 
the  vile  nature  of  the  man,  because  he  thought  the 
knowledge  he  had  to  impart  might  prove  a  little 
galling  to  his  master.  However  that  may  be,  for 
in  his  damnable  way  he  was  a  faithful  servant  to 
his  lord,  he  waited  awhile  until  he  saw  that  Bea- 
trice walked  on  the  loggia  and  that  Dante  came  to 
her,  and  that  she  seemed  to  greet  him  as  one  ex- 
pected. Now  it  taxes  no  more  the  wit  of  a  rogue 
than  the  wit  of  an  honest  man  to  guess  that  when 
two  young  people  stand  apart  and  talk,  it  is  God's 
194 


A   SPY   IN   THE   NIGHT 

gold  to  the  devil's  silver  that  they  talk  love-talk. 
So  as  Maleotti  had  seen  enough,  and  durst  not  go 
nearer  to  hear  aught,  he  made  his  way  back  as 
swiftly  as  he  could  through  the  green  and  silent 
garden  to  the  noisy  rooms  within  the  house  where 
folk  still  were  dancing  and  singing  and  eating  and 
drinking  and  making  merry,  as  if  they  knew  not 
when  they  should  be  merry  again. 

High  at  the  table  Maleotti  spied  his  master, 
Messer  Simone.  He  had  now  disarmed,  and  sat, 
very  big  with  meat  and  drink  and  very  red  of  face, 
talking  loudly  to  a  company  of  obsequious  gentle- 
men who  thought,  or  seemed  to  think,  his  utterances 
oracular.  A  good  way  off,  at  the  head  of  his  own 
table,  sat  Messer  Folco,  grave  and  gray  and  smiling, 
his  one  thought  seeming  to  be  that  those  that  came 
under  his  roof  should  be  happy  in  their  own  way,  so 
long  as  that  way  accorded  with  the  decorum  ex- 
pected of  Florentine  citizens.  I  fancy  that  his 
glance  must  have  fallen  more  than  o  ^ce,  and  that 
unadmiringly,  upon  that  part  of  the  table  where 
Messer  Simone  sat  and  babbled  and  brawled  and 
drank,  as  if  drinking  were  a  new  fashion  which  he 
was  resolved  to  test  to  the  uttermost.  Messer 
Simone,  being  such  a  mighty  giant  of  a  man,  was 
appropriately  mighty  in  his  appetites,  and  could, 
I  truly  believe,  eat  more  and  drink  more,  and  in 
other  animal  ways  enjoy  himself  more,  than  any 
man  in  all  Italy.  But  though  he  would,  and  often 
'95 


THE    GOD   OF   LOVE 

did,  drink  himself  drunk  at  the  feasts  where  he  was 
a  guest,  as  very  notably  in  that  case  where  he  made 
his  wager  with  Monna  Vittoria,  he  could,  if  need 
were,  and  if  occasion  called  for  the  use  of  his 
activities,  shake  off  the  stupor  of  wine  and  the  leth- 
argy of  gluttony  and  be  ready  for  any  business 
that  was  fitted  to  the  limitations  of  his  intelligence 
and  the  strength  of  his  arms. 

Such  ways  as  Messer  Simone's,  however,  were  dis- 
tasteful to  the  major  part  of  our  Florentine  gentry, 
who  always  cherished  a  certain  decorum  in  their 
bodily  pleasures  and  admired  a  certain  restraint  at 
table,  and  what  they  approved  was  naturally  even 
more  highly  esteemed  and  commended  by  Messer 
Folco  Portinari,  who  was  very  fastidious  in  all  his 
public  commerce  with  the  world,  and  punctilious 
in  the  observance  of  the  laws  and  doctrines  of  good 
manners.  How  such  a  man  could  ever  have  con- 
sented to  consider  Messer  Simone  for  a  single  mo- 
ment as  a  F-  Itor  for  his  daughter  passes  my  under- 
standing. But  Messer  Simone  was  rich  and  power- 
ful and  of  a  great  house,  and  Messer  Folco  loved 
riches  and  power  and  good  birth  as  dearly  as  ever 
a  woman  loved  jewels. 

However  that  may  be,  our  Maleotti  got  near  to 
Simone,  and  after  trying  unavailingly  to  catch  the 
attention  of  his  eye,  made  so  bold  as  to  come  hard 
by  him  and  to  pluck  him  by  the  sleeve  of  his  doublet 
once  or  twice.  This  failing  to  stir  Messer  Simone, 
196 


A   SPY   IN   THE   NIGHT 

who  was  thorough  in  his  cups,  Maleotti  spurred  his 
resolve  a  pace  further,  and  first  whispered  and  then 
shrieked  a  call  into  Messer  Simone's  ear.  The  whis- 
per Messer  Simone  passed  unheeded,  the  shriek 
roused  him.  He  turned  in  his  seat  with  an  oath, 
and,  gripping  Maleotti  by  the  shoulder,  peered 
ferociously  into  his  face.  Then,  for  all  his  drinking, 
being  clear-headed  enough  to  recognize  his  hench- 
man's countenance,  he  realized  that  the  fellow 
might  have  some  immediate  business  with  him,  and, 
relaxing  his  grip,  he  asked  Maleotti  none  too  affably 
what  he  wanted.  Thereupon,  Maleotti  explained 
that  he  needed  some  private  speech  with  his  master, 
and  very  anxiously  and  urgently  beckoned  to  him  to 
quit  the  table  and  to  come  apart,  the  which  thing 
Messer  Simone  very  unwillingly,  and  volubly  curs- 
ing, did. 

But  when  he  had  risen  from  the  table  and  quitted 
the  circle  of  the  revellers,  and  stood  quite  apart 
from  curious  ears,  if  any  curious  ears  there  were, 
his  manner  changed  as  he  listened  to  the  hurried 
story  that  Maleotti  had  to  tell  him.  The  news,  as  it 
filtered  through  his  wine-clogged  brain,  seemed  to 
clarify  his  senses  and  quicken  his  wits.  He  was,  as 
I  guess,  no  longer  the  truculent,  wine-soaked  ruffian, 
but  all  of  a  sudden  the  man  of  action,  as  alert  and 
responsive  as  if  some  one  had  come  to  tell  him  that 
the  enemy  were  thundering  at  the  city's  gates.  He 
asked  Maleotti,  as  I  understand,  if  he  were  very 
197 


THE   GOD    OF   LOVE 

sure  of  what  he  said  and  of  what  he  saw,  and  when 
Maleotti  persisted  in  his  statement,  Messer  Simone 
fell  for  a  while  into  a  musing  mood  that  was  no 
stupor  of  intoxication.  Once  or  twice  he  made  as 
if  to  speak  to  his  fellow,  and  then  paused  to  think 
again,  and  it  was  not  until  after  some  minutes  that 
he  finally  decided  upon  his  course  of  action. 

I  think  it  would  have  pleased  Messer  Simone 
best  if  this  spying  creature  of  his  had  waited  for 
Dante  when  he  came  from  his  meeting,  and  stabbed 
him  as  he  passed.  But  he  thought,  as  I  believe, 
that  what  had  not  been  done  by  the  man  might 
very  well  be  done  by  the  master,  and  with  that,  as 
I  conceive,  for  his  most  immediate  intention,  he 
had  Maleotti  wait  for  him  in  the  garden.  There 
in  a  little  while  he  joined  him,  and  the  two  went 
together  toward  the  part  of  the  palace  where  Bea- 
trice had  her  dwelling.  But  when  they  came  to 
the  gateway  beneath  the  loggia  where  Beatrice  had 
talked  with  Dante,  the  lovers  had  parted,  and  Dante 
had  gone  his  ways  and  Beatrice  had  returned  to 
her  rooms.  Then  Messer  Simone  turned  to  his 
follower  and  bade  him  hasten  to  Messer  Folco, 
where  he  sat  at  his  wine,  and  get  his  private  ear, 
and  tell  him  that  a  man  was  having  speech  with 
his  daughter  on  the  threshold  of  her  apartments. 
Messer  Simone  knew  well  enough  how  great  an 
effect  such  a  piece  of  news  would  have  upon  the 
austere  nature  of  his  host,  and  I  make  no  doubt 
198 


A   SPY    IN    THE    NIGHT 

that  his  red  face  grinned  in  the  moonlight  as  he 
dispatched  his  fellow  upon  his  errand.  When 
Maleotti  had  gone,  Messer  Simone  slowly  ascended 
the  staircase  that  conducted  to  the  loggia,  and  con- 
cealed himself  very  effectually  behind  a  pillar  in  a 
dark  corner  hard  by  the  door  of  Beatrice's  rooms. 

I  have  stood  upon  that  loggia  in  later  years,  and 
looked  out  upon  Florence  when  all  the  colors  of 
summer  were  gay  about  the  city.  I  know  that  the 
prospect  is  as  fair  as  man  could  desire  to  behold, 
and  I  know  that  there  was  one  exiled  heart  which 
ached  to  be  denied  that  prospect  and  who  died  in 
exile  denied  it  forever.  I  dare  swear  that  his  latest 
thoughts  carried  him  back  to  that  moon-lit  night 
of  July  when  he  made  bold  to  climb  the  private 
stair  and  seek  private  speech  with  Madonna  Bea- 
trice. I  can  guess  very  well  how  the  scene  showed 
that  night  in  the  moonbeams — all  the  city  stretched 
out  below,  a  harlequin's  coat  of  black  and  silver, 
according  to  the  disposition  of  the  homes  and  the 
open  spaces  with  their  lights  and  shadows.  I  can 
fancy  how,  through  the  gilded  air,  came  the  cheer- 
ful sounds  of  the  dancing  and  the  luting  and  the 
laughter  and  the  festival,  and  how  all  Florence 
seemed  to  be,  as  it  were,  one  wonderful,  perfect 
flower  of  warmth  and  color  and  joy. 

It  is  all  very  long  ago,  this  time  of  which  I  write, 
and  it  may  very  well  be  that  I  exaggerate  its  rapt- 
ures, as  they  say — though  in  this  I  do  not  agree — is 
199 


THE   GOD    OF    LOVE 

the  way  with  elders  when  they  recall  the  sweet, 
honey-tinted,  honey-tasting  days  of  their  youth. 
It  would  not  be  possible  for  any  man  to  overpraise 
the  glories  and  beauties  of  Florence  in  those  days. 
Those  glories,  as  I  think,  may  be  said  to  have  come 
to  an  end  with  the  Jubilee  of  His  Holiness  Pope 
Boniface  the  Eighth,  the  poor  pope  who  was  said 
to  be  killed  by  command  of  the  French  king,  but 
who,  as  I  have  heard  tell,  escaped  from  that 
fate  and  died  a  nameless  hermit  in  a  forest  of 
Greece. 

However  that  may  be,  I  am  glad  to  think,  for 
all  that  I  am  now  so  chastened,  and  for  all  that  I 
have  learned  patience,  that  I  can  recall  so  clearly 
that  pillared  place  with  the  moonbeams  dappling 
the  marble,  and  can  rekindle  in  my  withered 
anatomy  something  of  the  noble  fire  that  burned 
in  the  heart  of  Dante,  as  he  stood  there  in  his 
youth  and  his  hope  and  his  love,  and  looked  into 
the  eyes  of  his  marvellous  lady.  Also,  I  am  glad 
to  think  that  I  know  much  of  the  words  that  passed 
between  the  youth  and  the  maid  in  that  hour,  and 
if  not  their  exact  substance,  at  least  their  purport. 
For  though  Dante  never  made  confidence  to  me  of 
a  matter  so  sacred  as  the  speech  exchanged  at  such 
an  interview,  yet  he  spoke  of  it  to  Messer  Guido, 
whom,  after  he  had  entered  into  terms  of  friendship 
with  him,  he  loved  and  trusted,  very  rightly,  better 
than  me.  Also — for  that  was  his  way — he  set  much 
200 


A   SPY   IN   THE   NIGHT 

of  that  night's  discourse  into  the  form  of  a  song 
which  he  gave  to  Messer  Guido.  Messer  Guido, 
before  his  melancholy  end,  over  which,  as  I  be- 
lieve, the  Muses  still  weep,  knowing  how  great  a 
concern  I  had  in  the  doings  of  Messer  Dante,  told 
me  with  great  clarity  the  essence  of  what  Dante 
had  told  to  him,  and  showed  me  the  poem,  not  only 
allowing  me  to  read  it,  but  granting  me  permission, 
if  it  so  pleased  me,  to  take  a  copy.  This,  indeed, 
I  should  have  done,  but  being,  as  I  always  have 
been,  a  lazy  knave,  I  neglected  to  do,  thinking  that 
any  time  would  serve  as  well  as  the  present,  and 
being,  as  I  fear,  entangled  in  some  pleasant  pastime 
with  a  light  o'  love  or  two  that  interfered  with  such 
serious  interests  as  I  owned  in  life,  and  of  which 
certainly  none  should  have  been  more  serious  than 
any  matter  concerning  my  dear  friend  and  poet. 
Then,  when  it  was  too  late  for  me  to  amend  my 
error,  came  Messer  Guido's  death,  and  no  man 
knows  now  what  became  of  those  verses. 

As  for  me,  I  cannot  remember  them,  try  I  never 
so  hard  to  cudgel  my  brains  for  their  meaning  and 
sequence.  Sometimes,  indeed,  at  night,  in  sleep, 
I  seem  to  see  them  plain  and  staring  before  me  on 
a  smooth  page  of  parchment,  every  word  clear, 
every  rhyme  legible,  the  beautiful  thoughts  set  forth 
in  a  beautiful  hand  of  write;  but  when  I  wake 
they  have  all  vanished.  Sometimes  on  an  evening 
of  late  summer,  when  the  winds  are  blowing  softly 


THE    GOD    OF   LOVE 

through  the  roses  and  filling  the  air  with  odors 
almost  unbearably  sweet,  it  seems  to  me  as  if  the 
sweet  voices  of  lovers  were  chanting  those  lines, 
and  that  I  have  only  to  listen  needfully  to  have 
them  for  my  own  again.  But  it  is  all  in  vain  that 
I  try  to  remember  them  to  any  profit.  A  few 
phrases  buzz  in  my  own  brains,  but  they  are  no 
more  than  phrases,  such  as  I,  or  any  man  that  was  at 
all  nimble  in  the  spinning  of  words,  might  use  about 
love  and  a  sweet  lady,  and  there  are  not  enough  of 
them  left  to  build  up  again  the  noble  structure  of 
so  splendid  a  vision. 

Well,  as  I  say,  Messer  Dante,  having  quitted  the 
festivity,  made  his  way  into  the  garden,  where  he 
lingered  a  little  while.  Then  it  seemed  to  him  that 
the  God  of  Love  appeared  to  him  in  the  same  form 
as  before,  only  more  glorious,  and  bade  him  follow, 
and  he  went,  guided,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  ever  by 
that  strange  and  luminous  presence  through  this 
path  and  that  path,  till  he  came  to  the  appointed 
staircase  and  climbed  it,  following  ever  the  winged 
feet  of  Love.  When  he  came  to  the  top  of  the 
stairway  he  passed  through  a  little  door  on  to  the 
open,  moon-drenched  loggia,  and  straightway  his 
first  thought  was  that  he  beheld  the  stars,  seeing 
that  they  seemed  to  him  to  shine  so  very  brightly 
in  heaven  after  the  blackness  of  the  darkness 
through  which  he  had  passed.  And  I  think  it 
must  be  some  memory  of  that  night  which  has  made 

202 


A   SPY   IN   THE   NIGHT 

him  thrice  record  with  much  significant  insistence 
his  beholding  of  the  stars. 

In  the  mingled  moonlight  and  starlight  of  the 
loggia  the  figure  of  the  God  of  Love  showed,  he 
said,  as  clearly  to  his  eyes  as  when  he  had  ascended 
the  winding  stair,  albeit  differently,  for  whereas  in 
the  darkness  the  shape  of  Love  had  appeared  to  him 
luminous  and  fluttering,  as  if  it  had  been  com- 
posed of  many  living  and  tinted  fires,  now  in  the 
clear  light  of  that  open  space  it  showed  more  like 
a  bodily  presence,  not  human  indeed,  but  wearing 
such  humanity  as  it  pleased  the  gods  of  old  time 
to  assume  when  they  condescended  to  commune 
with  mortals.  I  remember  how  he  said,  in  the 
poem  which  I  spoke  of,  that  he  could  have  counted, 
had  he  the  leisure,  every  feather  in  Love's  wings. 
But  the  god,  or  the  vision  which  he  took  to  be  a 
god,  gave  him  no  such  leisure,  for  he  came  to  a  halt, 
and  he  had  his  arrow  in  his  hand,  and  with  that 
arrow  he  pointed  before  him,  and  then  the  image 
of  the  God  of  Love  melted  into  the  moonlight  and 
vanished,  and  the  glory  of  the  stars  was  forgotten, 
and  Dante  knew  of  nothing  and  cared  for  nothing 
but  that  his  lady  Beatrice  stood  there  awaiting 
him. 


XVI 

THE   TALK   OF    LOVERS 

WHEN  Dante  came  to  the  loggia  it  was  very 
white  in  the  moonlight,  save  where  the  shadows 
of  the  marble  pillars  barred  it  with  bands  of  black. 
Amid  the  moonlight  and  the  shade  Beatrice  walked, 
and  waited  for  his  coming.  When  she  heard  his 
footsteps  she  came  to  a  halt  in  her  course,  and  he, 
as  he  advanced,  could  see  the  shining  of  her  eyes  and 
the  quickened  color  of  her  cheeks;  and  it  seemed 
to  him  in  his  rapture  that  he  did  not  move  as  mor- 
tals do,  but  that  he  went  on  winged  feet  toward  that 
vision  of  perfect  loveliness.  But  when  he  came 
nigh  to  her,  so  near  that  if  he  had  stretched  out  his 
arm  he  could  have  touched  her  with  his  hand,  he 
stopped,  and  while  he  longed  with  all  his  soul  to 
speak,  the  use  of  words  seemed  suddenly  to  be  for- 
bidden to  him,  and  his  members  began  to  tremble 
again,  as  they  had  trembled  before,  when  he  came 
to  an  end  of  reading  the  poem. 

Madonna  Beatrice  saw  the  case  he  was  in,  and 
her  heart  pitied  him,  and,  perchance,  she  marvelled 
that  Dante,  who  carried   himself  so  valiantly  and 
204 


THE   TALK   OF   LOVERS 

could  make  songs  of  such  surpassing  sweetness, 
should  be  so  downcast  and  discomfited  in  the  pres- 
ence of  her  eighteen  years.  However  that  may  be, 
she  addressed  him,  and  the  sound  of  her  voice  fell 
very  fresh  and  soft  upon  his  ears,  enriching  the  sum- 
mer splendor  of  the  night  with  its  music  as  her 
beauty  enhanced  its  glory  with  the  glory  of  her 
bodily  presence.  "What  have  you  to  say  to  me," 
she  asked,  "that  is  so  urgent  that  it  cannot  wait 
for  the  day?" 

At  this  question  Dante  seemed  to  pluck  up  some 
courage — not  much,  indeed,  but  still  a  little;  and  he 
made  bold  to  answer  her  after  the  manner  that  is 
called  symbolic,  and  this,  or  something  like  this, 
is  what  he  said: 

"  Madonna,  I  may  compare  myself  to  a  man  that 
is  going  on  a  journey  very  instantly,  and  since  no 
man  that  rides  out  of  a  gate  can  say  to  himself  very 
surely  that  he  will  ride  in  again,  I  have  certain 
thoughts  in  my  heart  that  clamor  to  make  them- 
selves known  to  you,  and  will  not  by  any  means 
be  gainsaid  if  I  can  at  all  compass  the  way  to 
utter  them." 

Beatrice  smiled  at  him  very  kindly  in  the  moon- 
light, for  the  youth  in  his  voice  appealed  very  ear- 
nestly to  the  youth  in  her  heart,  and  it  may  be  to  a 
gaingiving  that  had  also  its  lodging  in  her  body 
and  warned  her  of  youth's  briefness. 

While  she  smiled  she  spoke.  "Many  would  say 
205 


THE    GOD    OF   LOVE 

that  I  lacked  modesty  if  they  knew  that  I  talked 
with  you  thus  belated  and  unknown,  but  I  think 
that  I  know  you  too  well,  though  I  know  you  so 
little,  to  have  any  doubt  of  your  honesty  and  well- 
meaning." 

At  the  kindness  in  her  voice  and  the  confidence 
of  her  trust  Dante  carried  himself  very  straight 
and  held  his  head  very  high  for  pride  at  her  words, 
and  he  was  so  strangely  happy  that  he  was  amazed 
to  find  himself  even  more  happy  than  he  had  hoped 
to  be  in  her  presence. 

With  that  blissful  exaltation  upon  him,  he  ad- 
dressed her  again.  "Lady,  when  a  traveller  takes 
the  road,  if  he  has  possessions,  and  if  he  be  a  wise 
man,  he  makes  him  a  will,  which  he  leaves  in  safe 
hands,  and  he  sets  all  his  poor  affairs  in  order  as 
well  as  may  be.  And  he  leaves  this  possession  to 
this  kinsman,  and  that  gift  to  that  friend,  till  all 
that  he  has  is  properly  allotted,  so  that  his  affairs 
may  be  straight  if  evil  befall.  But  I,  when  I  go 
upon  a  journey,  have  no  greater  estate  than  my 
heart  to  bequeath."  He  paused  for  a  moment, 
watching  her  wistfully,  and  seeing  that  her  face 
was  changeless  in  the  moonlight,  showing  no  sign 
either  of  impatience  or  of  tolerance,  he  spoke  again, 
in  a  very  low  voice,  asking  her,  "Have  I  your  leave 
to  go  on  with  what  I  am  hot  to  say  ?" 

"You  may  go  on,"  Beatrice  answered  him,  and 
her  voice  seemed  calm  as  she  spoke. 
206 


THE   TALK   OF    LOVERS 

But  if  Dante  had  known  women  better — if  he  had 
been  like  me,  for  instance — he  would  have  known 
that,  for  all  her  show  of  calm,  she  was  no  less 
agitated  than  he  who  stood  before  her  and  adored 
her.  But  he  only  saw  her  divinely  aloof  and  himself 
most  humanly  mortal.  Yet  he  took  courage  from 
her  permission  to  speak  again.  "Madonna,  ever 
since  that  sacred  day  when  you  gave  me  the  rose 
that  I  carry  next  my  heart,  my  mind  has  had  no 
other  thought  but  of  you,  and  my  life  no  other  pur- 
pose than  to  be  worthy,  if  only  in  a  little,  of  your 
esteem.  Yet,  for  some  reason  unknown  to  me,  you 
have  of  late,  in  any  chance  encounter,  chosen  to 
withdraw  from  me  the  solace  of  your  salutation, 
and  I  grieve  bitterly  that  this  is  so,  though  I  know 
not  why  it  is  so." 

"Let  that  pass,"  said  Beatrice,  gently,  "and  be 
as  if  it  had  not  been.  I  had  heard  that  you  kept 
light  company.  Young  men  often  do  so,  and  it 
is  no  part  of  my  duty  to  judge  them.  But  you 
yourself,  Messer  Dante,  invited  my  judgment, 
challenged  my  esteem,  told  me  that  for  my  sake 
you  meant  to  do  great  things,  prove  yourself  noble, 
a  man  I  must  admire.  When,  after  all  the  fine- 
sounding  promises,  I  found  you  counted  by  gossip 
as  the  companion  of  Vittoria,  you  need  not  wonder 
if  I  was  disappointed,  and  if  my  disappointment 
showed  itself  plainly  on  my  averted  face." 

"Madonna,"  Dante  began,  eagerly,  but  the  girl 
207 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

lifted  her  hand  to  check  interruption,  and  Dante 
held  his  peace  as  the  girl  continued  to  speak. 

"I  know  now  that  I  was  wrong  in  my  reading  of 
your  deed;  that  what  you  did,  you  did  for  a  reason 
that  you  believed  to  be  both  wise  and  good.  Though 
I  do  not  think  that  it  is  ever  well  for  a  true  man  to 
play  an  untrue  part,  yet  I  know  that  you  acted  thus 
in  the  thought  of  serving  me.  So  let  it  pass,  and  be 
as  if  it  had  not  been." 

She  was  silent,  and  for  a  little  while  Dante  was 
silent  too,  staring  at  her  beautiful  face  and  clasping 
his  hands  tightly  together,  as  one  that  has  much  to 
say  and  knows  not  how  to  say  it.  Once  and  again 
his  lips  that  parted  to  speak  closed  again,  for  if 
he  rejoiced  greatly  to  stand  there  in  her  presence 
and  be  free  to  speak  his  mind  unimpeded,  yet  also 
he  feared  greatly  lest  the  words  he  might  utter  should 
prove  unworthy  of  this  golden  chance  given  him 
by  Heaven. 

But  at  length  his  longing  conquered  his  alarm, 
and  he  spoke  quickly.  "Hear  me,  Beatrice,"  he 
pleaded.  "My  heart  is  young,  and  I  will  never 
be  so  vain  as  to  swear  that  it  is  untainted  by  the 
folly  of  youth,  or  free  from  the  pride  of  youth,  or 
clean  of  the  greed  of  youth.  But  now  it  is  swept 
and  garnished,  made  as  a  fair  shrine  for  a  divine 
idol,  for  a  woman,  for  a  girl,  for  an  angel — for  you!" 

Beatrice  looked  very  steadfastly  upon  the  eager 
face  of  her  lover  while  she  listened  to  his  eager 
208 


THE   TALK   OF   LOVERS 

words,  and  when  he  paused  she  began  to  murmur 
very  softly  the  opening  lines  of  one  of  the  sonnets 
that  Dante  had  written  in  those  days  of  his  secrecy: 

"The  lady  that  is  angel  of  my  heart, 

She  knows  not  of  my  love  and  may  not  know — " 

She  stopped  and  looked  at  Dante  as  if  she  ques- 
tioned him,  and  Dante  answered  her  by  carrying 
on  the  lines: 

"Until  God's  finger  gives  the  sign  to  show 
That  I  to  her  the  secret  may  impart." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  rejoicing  to  think  that 
she  had  so  far  cherished  his  verses;  then  he  went 
on,  eagerly:  "God's  finger  gives  me  the  sign  to- 
night, and  I  will  speak,  lest  I  die  with  the  message 
of  my  soul  undelivered.  I  love  you."  It  seemed 
to  him  that  she  must  needs  hear  the  fierce  beatings 
of  his  heart  as  he  spoke  these  words. 

Beatrice  looked  at  him  with  a  melancholy  smile. 
"Is  that  the  message  of  your  soul  ?"  she  asked. 

And  Dante  answered:  "That  is  my  soul  itself. 
All  my  being  is  uplifted  by  my  love  for  you.  It 
has  made  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth  for  me: 
a  new  heaven  whither  you  shall  guide  me,  a  new 
earth  where  I  shall  walk  more  bravely,  and  yet  more 
warily,  than  of  old,  fearing  nothing,  for  your  sake, 
save  only  to  be  found  unworthy  to  say, '  I  love  you.'  " 
209 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

If  Dante  spoke  with  a  passionate  happiness  in 
thus  setting  free  his  soul,  there  was  happiness  too, 
in  Beatrice's  voice  as  she  answered  him.  "I  am, 
indeed,  content  to  hear  you  speak,  for  your  words 
seem,  as  words  seldom  seem  in  this  city  and  in  this 
world,  to  be  quite  true  words.  So  when  you  say 
you  love  me,  I  feel  neither  agitation,  nor  flattered 
vanity,  nor  amazement — all  which  feelings,  as  I 
have  read  in  books  and  heard  of  gossips,  are  proper 
to  maidens  in  these  hours.  Only  I  know  that  I 
believe  you,  and  that  I  am  glad  to  believe  you." 

Dante  interrupted  her,  crying  her  name  with 
passionate  eagerness — "Beatrice!"  But  he  kept 
the  place  where  he  stood. 

The  girl  spoke  again,  finishing  her  thought. 
"And  I  think  you  will  always  be  worthy  to  offer 
love  and  to  win  love." 

Dante  moved  a  little  nearer  to  her,  and  he 
stretched  out  his  hands  as  one  that  begs  a  great 
gift.  "Beatrice,"  he  entreated,  "will  you  give  me 
your  love  ?" 

The  smile  that  was  partly  kind  and  partly  wist- 
ful came  again  to  the  girl's  face.  "Messer  Dante, 
Messer  Dante,"  she  said,  "how  can  you  ask,  and 
how  can  I  answer  ?  A  raw  youth  and  a  green  girl 
do  not  make  the  world  between  them,  nor  change 
the  world's  laws,  nor  the  laws  of  this  little  city,  nor 
the  laws  of  my  father  in  my  father's  house.  And 
my  father's  law  is  like  a  hand  upon  my  lips,  for- 
210 


THE   TALK   OF   LOVERS 

bidding  them  to  speak,  and  like  a  hand  upon  my 
heart,  forbidding  it  to  beat." 

Dante  protested  very  vehemently,  in  all  the  zeal 
and  freshness  of  his  youth.  "The  law  of  Love  is 
greater  than  all  other  laws.  The  strength  of  Love  is 
stronger  than  all  strength.  The  sword  of  Love  is 
stronger  than  the  archangel's  sword,  and  conquers 
all  enemies." 

Beatrice  shook  her  head  at  her  lover's  fury,  and 
her  eyes  shone  very  brightly  in  the  moonlight. 
"Oh,  Dante!  Dante!"  she  said,  softly,  "if  this  were 
indeed  so,  the  world  would  be  an  easier  world  for 
lovers.  If  you  were  to  tell  my  father  what  you 
have  told  me,  or  if  I  were  to  tell  my  father  what 
I  have  told  you,  he  would  twit  us  for  a  pair  of  silly 
children,  and  take  good  heed  that  we  were  kept 
apart.  If  you  were  to  ask  my  father  for  me,  he 
would  deny  you,  and  laugh  while  he  denied;  for  my 
father  is  a  proud  man,  and  one  that  loves  wealth 
and  power  very  greatly,  and  will  not  give  his  child 
save  where  wealth  and  power  abide.  If  he  were 
to  come  upon  us  here,  now,  where  we  talk  alone  in 
the  moonlight,  he  would  raise  his  hand  to  slay  you, 
and  he  has  not  a  neighbor  nor  a  friend  but  would 
say  he  did  right.  You  know  all  this,  even  as  I 
know  it.  Why,  then,  do  you  ask  me  to  give  what 
I  cannot  give?" 

She  was  very  calm  and  sad  as  she  spoke,  and  the 
truth  that  was  in  her  mournful  words  was  not  to 
211 


THE   GOD   OF    LOVE 

be  denied  by  Dante.  But  all  the  ardors  of  his 
being  were  spurred  by  his  consciousness  that  he 
had  made  known  his  love  for  her,  and  that  she, 
surely,  had  scarcely  done  less  than  confess  her  love 
for  him,  and  while  such  sweet  happenings  hallowed 
the  world,  it  did  not  seem  to  the  poet  possible  that 
any  mortal  power  could  come  between  them.  And 
in  this  confidence  he  addressed  his  beloved  again, 
all  on  fire. 

"Dear  woman,"  he  urged,  "not  all  the  fathers  in 
Florence  can  bind  our  spirits.  I  love  you  now,  I 
shall  love  you  while  I  live — in  hunger  and  thirst, 
in  feasting  and  singing,  in  the  church  and  in  the 
street,  in  sorrow  and  in  joy,  in  cross  or  success.  My 
life  and  every  great  and  little  thing  within  my  life 
is  sanctified  to  a  sacrament  by  my  love  for  you. 
Cannot  your  spirit,  that  is  as  free  as  mine,  uplift 
my  heart  with  a  word  ?" 

So  he  petitioned  her,  ardently,  and  his  warmth 
found  favor  in  the  girl's  grave,  watchful  eyes. 

"I  have  heard  you  praised  highly  of  late,"  she 
said,  "and  men  give  you  great  promise.  But, 
truly,  I  judge  you  with  the  sight  of  my  own  eyes, 
not  with  the  sound  of  others'  words.  And  I  think 
you  are  indeed  a  man  that  a  woman  might  be  happy 
to  love." 

Dante's  heart  leaped  to  hear  such  sweet  speech, 
and  for  very  joy  he  was  silent  awhile.  Then  he 
said:  "If  I  be  indeed  anything  worth  weighing 


THE   TALK    OF   LOVERS 

in  the  scales  of  your  favor,  it  is  for  your  sake  that 
I  have  made  myself  so,  Madonna." 

Beatrice  laughed  a  little,  very  gently,  at  his 
words,  and  pretended  to  frown,  and  failed.  "My 
cold  reason,"  she  asserted,  "tells  me  that  I  would 
rather  you  bettered  yourself  just  for  the  sake  of 
being  better,  and  with  no  less  unselfish  intention; 
but,  to  be  honest,  my  warm  heart  throbs  at  your 
homage." 

Dante  would  have  come  closer,  but  she  stayed  him 
with  a  gesture.  "You  make  me  very  proud,"  he 
murmured. 

Beatrice  went  on.  "Yet  I  know  well  that  men 
have  done  greatly  to  please  women  that  were  not 
worth  the  pleasing,  or  merely  for  the  lure  of  some 
grace  of  hand  or  lip.  I  should  like  to  think  that 
my  lover  would  always  live  at  his  best  for  my  sake, 
though  he  never  won  a  kiss  of  me/* 

"Then  here  I  swear  it,"  Dante  said,  proudly,  "to 
dedicate  my  life  to  your  service,  and  to  make  all 
honorable  proof  of  my  devotion.  But  you,  beloved, 
will  you  not  give  me  some  words  of  hope  ?" 

Beatrice  extended  her  hands  to  him,  and  he  caught 
those  dear  hands  in  his,  and  held  them  tightly, 
and  Beatrice  was  smiling  as  she  spoke,  although 
there  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  "So  far,"  she  said, 
"as  a  woman  can  promise  the  life  that  is  guided  by 
another's  law,  I  give  you  my  life,  Dante.  But  my 
love  is  my  own,  to  hold  or  to  yield,  and  I  give  it 
7.13 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

all  to  you  with  all  my  heart,  knowing  that  because 
you  think  it  worth  the  winning,  you  will  be  worthy 
of  what  you  have  won." 

Now,  as  I  think,  here  my  Dante  made  to  take  his 
lady  in  his  arms,  but  she  denied  him,  very  delicately 
and  gently,  pleading  with  such  sweet  reason  that 
the  most  ardent  lover  in  the  world  could  not  refuse 
her  obedience.  For  she  would  have  it  thus,  that 
until  their  love  could  be  avowed,  as  in  time  it  might 
be,  if  Dante  won  to  fame  and  honor  in  the  state, 
until  their  love  could  be  avowed  there  should  be 
no  lover's  commerce  between  them,  not  even  to  the 
changing  of  a  kiss.  For  she  would  not  have  him 
nor  her  act  otherwise  than  in  perfect  honorability 
as  befitted  their  great  love.  Because  Dante  did, 
indeed,  cherish  a  great  love  for  her,  that  was  greater 
than  all  temptings  of  the  flesh,  he  let  it  be  as  she 
wished.  So  this  pair,  that  were  almost  as  the 
angels  in  the  greatness  of  their  love,  pledged  their 
troths  with  the  simplicity  of  children,  and  parted 
with  the  innocence  of  children,  as  gentle  and  as 
chaste. 


XVII 

A    STRANGE    BETROTHAL 

WHAT  happened  now  happened  after  I  had 
left  the  festival,  but  I  heard  all  the  facts  later 
from  eye-witnesses,  so  that  I  honestly  think  I  can 
make  it  as  plain  a  tale  as  if  I  had  seen  the  things 
myself.  Messer  Maleotti,  doing  as  he  was  told  and 
rejoicing  in  the  thought  that  he  was  making  mis- 
chief, came  into  the  feasting -hall  where  Messer 
Folco  sat  apart  with  certain  old  friends  and  kins- 
folk of  his,  sober  gentlefolk  of  age  and  repute, 
that  made  merry  in  their  grave  way  and  laughed 
cheerfully  over  the  jests  of  yesteryear,  and  one  of 
them  was  Master  Tommaso  Severe,  that  was  Ma- 
donna Beatrice's  physician.  Now  Maleotti,  catch- 
ing sight  of  a  certain  ancient  servant  of  Messer 
Folco's,  whom  he  knew  well  to  be  an  honest  man 
and  one  much  trusted  by  his  master,  made  for  him 
and  drew  him  a  little  apart,  and  whispered  into  his 
ear  that  very  amazing  message  with  which  Messer 
Simone  had  intrusted  him. 

This  message,  bluntly  and  baldly  stated,  came  to 
this:  that  Maleotti,  taking  his  ease  in  the  garden 
215 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

and  wandering  this  way  and  that,  came  at  last  by 
chance  beneath  the  walls  of  that  part  of  the  palace 
where  Madonna  Beatrice  dwelt.  There,  on  the 
loggia,  very  plain  in  the  moonlight,  he  saw  Ma- 
donna Beatrice  in  discourse  with  a  man.  Though 
the  moonlight  was  bright  and  showed  the  face  of 
Madonna  Beatrice  very  distinctly,  the  man  stood  at 
an  angle,  as  it  were,  and  he  could  make  nothing 
of  him,  face  or  figure.  Such  was  the  story  which 
Maleotti,  primed  thereto  by  Simone,  had  to  tell. 
At  first  the  man  to  whom  he  told  it  seemed  in- 
credulous, as  well  he  might  be,  albeit  it  chanced 
the  tale  was  true,  and  then  he  became  doubtful — for, 
after  all,  youth  is  youth  and  love  love — and  finally, 
upon  Maleotti's  insistence,  he  did  indeed  consent 
to  go  toward  his  master,  and,  plucking  him  by  the 
sleeve,  solicit  the  favor  of  a  private  word  with  him. 
Messer  Folco,  who  was  always  very  affable  in  his 
bearing  to  those  that  served  him,  and  who  had  a 
special  affection  for  this  fellow,  rose  very  good- 
humoredly  from  the  table  and  the  converse  and  the 
wine,  and  going  a  little  ways  apart,  listened  to  what 
his  old  servant,  who  seemed  so  agitated  and  aghast, 
had  to  tell  him. 

When  Messer  Folco  heard  what  it  was  that  his 
man  had  to  say,  Messer  Folco  frowned  sternly,  and 
expressed  a  disbelief  so  emphatic  and  so  angry  that 
there  was  nothing  for  the  poor  servitor  to  do  but 
to  call  Maleotti  himself,  who,  with  great  seeming 
216 


A   STRANGE    BETROTHAL 

reluctance  and  with  many  protestations  of  regret, 
that  must  have  made  him  seem  like  a  particularly 
mischievous  monkey  apologizing  for  stealing  nuts, 
repeated,  with  a  cunning  lack  of  embellishment,  the 
plain  statement  that  he  had  made  to  the  retainer. 
Thereupon,  Messer  Folco,  in  a  great  rage  which  it 
took  all  his  boasted  philosophy  to  keep  under  con- 
trol, called  to  him  two  or  three  of  his  old  cronies 
that  were  still  lingering  about  the  deserted  tables. 
These  folk  were,  indeed,  also  his  kinsfolk,  and  it 
was  from  one  of  them  that  I  had  the  particulars 
which  I  am  about  to  set  forth  with  almost  as  much 
certainty  as  if  I  had  seen  them  myself. 

Making  hurried  excuses  to  those  few  that  re- 
mained at  the  table,  Messer  Folco  and  his  friends 
quitted  the  room  upon  their  errand  of  folly.  And 
Maleotti,  having  done  his  devil's  work,  departed 
upon  other  business  of  his  master's,  that  was  no 
less  damnable  in  its  nature  and  no  less  threaten- 
ing to  Simone's  enemies. 

Messer  Folco  and  his  friends  hurried  swiftly  and 
in  silence  through  the  still,  moon-lit  gardens  till  they 
came  to  the  gateway  that  Dante  had  opened  and 
the  little  staircase  whereby  Dante  had  ascended. 
Passing  through  this  gateway  and  mounting  those 
steps,  Messer  Folco  and  his  friends  came  to  the 
loggia  and  stood  there  for  a  moment  in  silence. 
Had  they  been  less  busy  upon  a  bad  and  unhappy 
errand,  they  must  needs  have  been  enchanted  by 
217 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

the  beauty  of  all  that  lay  before  and  around   them 
in  that  place  and  on  that  night  of  summer. 

The  air  was  very  hot  upon  the  loggia,  and  the 
night  was  very  still.  All  over  the  field  of  the  sky 
the  star-candles  were  burning  brightly,  and  it 
scarcely  needed  the  torches  that  certain  of  Messer 
Folco's  companions  carried  to  see  what  was  to  be 
seen.  Those  of  Messer  Folco's  kinsfolk  that  stood 
huddled  together  about  the  entrance  of  the  loggia, 
curious  and  confused  at  the  suddenness  of  the  un- 
lovely business,  could  see  that  their  leader  looked 
very  pale  and  grave  as  he  crossed  the  pavement 
and  struck  sharply  with  his  clinched  hand  at  the 
door  which  faced  him.  In  a  little  while  the  door 
opened,  and  one  of  Madonna  Beatrice's  ladies 
peeped  out  her  head,  and  gave  a  little  squeal  of  sur- 
prise at  the  sight  of  her  lord  and  the  rest  of  the 
company,  the  unexpected  presence,  and  the  unex- 
pected torches.  But  Messer  Folco  bade  her  very 
sternly  be  still,  and  when  Messer  Folco  commanded 
sternly  he  was  generally  obeyed.  Then  he  ordered 
her  that  she  should  summon  her  mistress  at  once 
to  come  to  him  there,  where  he  waited  for  her. 
When  the  sorely  frightened  girl  had  gone,  there  was 
silence  for  a  little  while  on  the  loggia,  while  the  per- 
plexed friends  stared  at  each  other's  blanched  faces, 
until  presently  the  little  door  opened  again  and 
Monna  Beatrice  came  forth  from  it,  and  saluted  her 
father  very  sweetly  and  gravely,  as  if  nothing  were 
218 


A   STRANGE   BETROTHAL 

out  of  the  ordinary,  though  some  thought,  and 
Messer  Tommaso  Severe  knew,  that  there  was  a 
troubled  look  in  her  usually  serene  eyes. 

Messer  Folco  addressed  her  calmly,  with  the  calm- 
ness of  one  that,  being  consciously  a  philosopher, 
seeks  to  restrain  all  needless,  unreasonable  rages, 
and  he  said,  slowly:  "Madonna,  I  have  been  told 
very  presently  by  one  that  pretends  to  have  seen 
what  he  tells,  that  you  talked  here  but  now  with 
a  man  alone.  The  thing,  of  course,  is  not  true  ?" 

The  question  which  went  with  the  utterance  of 
his  last  words  was  given  in  a  very  confident  voice, 
and  he  carried,  whether  by  dissimulation  or  no, 
a  very  confident  countenance. 

The  look  of  confidence  faded  from  his  face  as 
Madonna  Beatrice  answered  him  very  simply. 
"The  thing  is  true,"  she  said,  and  then  said  no 
more,  as  if  there  were  no  more  to  say,  but  stood 
quietly  where  she  was,  looking  steadily  at  her 
father  and  paying  no  heed  to  any  other  of  those 
that  were  present. 

The  voice  of  Folco  was  as  stern  as  before,  though 
harder  in  its  tone  as  he  again  addressed  his  daugh- 
ter. "The  thing  is  true,  then?  I  am  grieved  to 
hear  it.  Who  was  the  man  ?" 

Madonna  Beatrice  looked  at  him  very  directly. 
She  seemed  to  be  neither  at  all  abashed  nor  at  all 
defiant,  as  she  answered,  tranquilly,  "I  cannot  tell 
you,  father." 

is  219 


THE   GOD   OF    LOVE 

For  a  little  while  that  seemed  a  great  while  a 
dreary  quiet  reigned  over  that  moon-bathed  loggia. 
Father  and  daughter  faced  each  other  with  fixed 
gaze,  and  the  others,  very  ill  at  ease,  watching  the 
pair,  wished  themselves  elsewhere  with  all  their 
hearts. 

While  those  that  assisted  reluctantly  at  this  meet- 
ing wondered  what  would  happen  next,  seeing 
those  two  high,  simple,  and  noble  spirits  suddenly 
brought  into  such  strange  antagonism — before  they, 
I  say,  could  formulate  any  solution  of  the  problem, 
a  man  stepped  out  of  the  shadow  of  the  doorway 
and  advanced  toward  Folco  boldly,  and  the  aston- 
ished spectators  saw  that  the  man  was  none  other 
than  Messer  Simone  dei  Bardi.  However  he  may 
have  revelled  at  the  now  ended  festival,  there  were 
no  signs  of  wine  or  riot  about  him  now.  He  stood 
squarely  and  steadily  enough,  and  his  red  face  was 
no  redder  than  its  wont.  Only  a  kind  of  ferocious 
irony  showed  on  it  as  he  loomed  there,  largely 
visible  in  the  yellow  air. 

"What  is  all  this  fuss  about?"  he  asked,  with  a 
fierce  geniality.  "I  am  the  man  you  seek  after, 
and  why  should  I  not  be  ?  Though  why  you  should 
seek  for  me  I  fail  to  see.  May  not  a  man  speak 
awhile  in  private  to  the  lady  of  his  honorable 
love,  and  yet  no  harm  done  to  bring  folk  about 
our  ears  with  torches  and  talk  and  staring 
faces  ?" 

220 


A   STRANGE   BETROTHAL 

As  he  spoke  those  present  saw  how  Madonna 
Beatrice  looked  at  him,  and  they  read  in  her  face 
a  proud  disdain  and  a  no  less  proud  despair,  and 
they  knew  that  somehow  or  other,  though  of  course 
they  could  not  guess  how,  this  fair  and  gracious 
lady  was  caught  in  a  trap.  They  saw  how  she 
longed  to  speak  yet  did  not  speak,  and  they  knew 
thereby  there  was  some  reason  for  her  keeping 
silence.  Messer  Folco  looked  long  at  Messer 
Simone  dei  Bardi  as  he  stood  there  clearly  visible 
in  the  mingled  lights  —  large,  almost  monstrous, 
truculent,  ugly,  the  embodiment  of  savage  strength 
and  barbaric  appetites.  Then  Folco  looked  from 
Simone's  bulk  to  his  daughter,  who  stood  there  as 
cold  and  white  and  quiet  as  if  she  had  been  a 
stone  image  and  not  a  breathing  maid. 

Folco  advanced  toward  Beatrice  and  took  her  by 
the  hand  and  drew  her  apart  a  little  ways,  and  it 
so  chanced  that  the  place  where  they  came  to  a 
pause  was  within  ear-shot  of  one  of  those  that 
Messer  Folco  had  brought  with  him,  one  who  stood 
apart  in  the  darkness  and  looked  and  listened,  and 
this  one  was  Tommaso  Severe,  the  physician. 
Messer  Simone  kept  his  stand  with  his  arms  folded 
and  a  smile  of  triumph  on  his  face,  and  I  have  it  on 
good  authority — that,  namely,  of  Messer  Tommaso 
Severe — that  at  least  one  of  the  spectators  wished, 
as  he  beheld  Simone,  that  he  had  been  suddenly 
blessed  by  Heaven  with  the  strength  of  a  giant,  that 
221 


THE    GOD   OF    LOVE 

he  might  have  picked  the  Bardi  up  by  the  middle 
and  pitched  him  over  the  parapet  into  the  street 
below.  But  as  Heaven  vouchsafed  this  spectator 
no  such  grace,  Severe  kept  his  place  and  his  peace, 
and  he  heard  what  Messer  Folco  said  to  his  daughter 
Beatrice. 

And  what  he  said  to  her  and  what  she  answered 
to  him  was  very  brief  and  direct. 

Messer  Folco  asked  his  daughter,  "Was  this  the 
man  you  talked  with  but  now  ?" 

And  Beatrice,  looking  neither  at  her  father  nor 
at  any  other  one  there  present,  but  looking  straight 
before  her  over  the  gilded  greenness  of  the  garden, 
answered,  quietly,  "No." 

Then  Folco  questioned  her  again.  "Will  you 
tell  me  who  the  man  was  that  you  talked  with 
here?" 

And  again  Beatrice,  as  tranquil,  resolute  to  shield 
her  lover  from  danger,  with  the  same  fixed  gaze 
over  the  green  spaces  below  her,  answered  as  before 
the  same  answer,  "No." 

Then  there  came  a  breathing-space  of  quiet; 
Messer  Folco  looked  hard  at  his  daughter;  and  she, 
for  her  part,  looking,  as  before,  away  from  him,  be- 
cause, as  I  guess,  she  judged  that  there  would  be 
something  irreverent  in  outfacing  her  father  while 
she  denied  his  wishes  and  defied  so  strangely  his 
parental  authority.  Messer  Simone  stood  at  his 
ease  a  little  apart  with  the  mocking  smile  of  con- 
222 


A   STRANGE   BETROTHAL 

quest  on  his  face,  and  the  guests,  kinsfolk,  and 
friends,  that  were  witnesses  of  the  sad  business, 
huddled  together  uncomfortably. 

Then  Messer  Folco,  seeing  that  nothing  more 
was  to  be  got  from  the  girl,  turned  round  and  ad- 
dressed himself  to  those  of  his  kin  that  stood  by 
the  entrance  to  the  loggia.  "Friends,"  he  said, 
and  his  voice  was  measured,  and  his  words  came 
slow  and  clear — "kinsmen  and  friends,  I  have  a 
piece  of  news  for  you.  I  announce  here  and  now 
the  betrothal  of  my  daughter  Beatrice  to  Messer 
Simone  dei  Bardi,  and  I  bid  you  all  to  the  wed- 
ding to  -  morrow  in  the  church  of  the  Holy 
Name." 

Then,  in  the  silence  that  greeted  this  statement, 
Messer  Folco  held  out  his  right  hand  to  Simone 
and  took  his  right  hand,  and  he  drew  Simone  tow- 
ard him  and  then  toward  Beatrice,  and  he  lifted 
the  right  hand  of  Beatrice,  that  lay  limply  against 
her  side,  and  made  to  place  its  whiteness  on  the 
brown  palm  of  Messer  Simone.  Messer  Simone's 
face  was  flushed  with  triumph  and  Monna  Bea- 
trice's face  was  drawn  with  pain,  and  those  that 
witnessed  and  wondered  thought  a  great  wrong  had 
been  wrought,  and  wondered  why.  But  before 
Messer  Folco  could  join  the  two  hands  together 
Beatrice  suddenly  plucked  her  hand  away  from 
her  father's  clasp. 

"No!  no!  no!"  she  cried,  in  a  loud  voice,  and 
223 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

then  again  cried  "No!"  And  even  as  she  did  so 
she  reeled  backward  in  a  swoon,  and  would  have 
fallen  upon  the  marble  pavement  if  Messer  Severo, 
that  was  watching  her,  had  not  sprung  timely  for- 
ward and  caught  her  in  his  arms. 


XVIII 

A   WORD   FOR   MESSER    SIMONE 

I  MUST,  in  the  fulness  of  my  heart,  agree  with 
those  that  speak  in  favor  of  Messer  Simone  dei 
Bardi.  It  is  the  native,  intimate,  and  commend- 
able wish  of  a  man  to  abolish  his  enemies — I  speak 
here  after  the  fashion  of  the  worldling  that  I  was, 
for  the  cell  and  the  cloister  have  no  concern  with 
mortal  passions  and  frailties — and  Messer  Simone 
was  in  this,  as  in  divers  other  qualities,  of  a  very 
manly  disposition.  He  thought  in  all  honesty  that 
it  would  be  very  good  for  him  to  be  the  ruler  of 
Florence,  yet,  also,  and  no  less,  that  it  would  be 
very  good  for  Florence  to  be  ruled  by  him.  This 
is  the  way  of  such  great  personages,  as  indeed  it  is 
the  way  of  meaner  creatures :  to  persuade  themselves 
very  pleasantly  that  what  they  desire  for  themselves 
they  are  justified  in  desiring  on  account  of  the 
benefit  their  accomplished  wishes  must  bear  to 
others. 

Messer  Simone,  having  the  idea  once  lodged  in 
his  skull — a  dwelling-place  of  unusual  thickness, 
that  was  well  made  for  keeping  any  idea  that  ever 
225 


THE    GOD   OF    LOVE 

entered  it  a  prisoner — that  it  would  be  well  for  him 
to  take  charge  of  Florence,  had  no  room  in  his  pate 
for  tender  or  merciful  consideration  of  those  that 
sought  or  seemed  to  seek  to  cross  him  in  his  pur- 
pose. They  were  his  enemies;  there  was  no  more 
to  be  said  about  it,  and  for  his  enemies,  when  it 
was  possible,  he  had  ever  a  short  way.  Now, 
Messer  Guido  Cavalcanti,  and  those  of  his  inclin- 
ing, were  very  curiously  and  truly  his  enemies,  and 
he  had  been  longing  for  a  great  while  to  get  them 
out  of  the  way  of  his  ambitions  and  his  purposes, 
yet  could  find  no  ready  means  to  compass  their 
destruction.  But  of  late  he  had  found  a  new 
enemy  in  the  person  of  my  friend  Dante,  and  a 
formidable  enemy  for  all  his  seeming  insignificance; 
and  if  Simone  sought  to  crush  Dante,  I  cannot 
blame  him  for  the  attempt,  however  much  I  may 
rejoice  in  his  failure. 

I  believe  Messer  Simone  to  have  been  as  much 
in  love  with  Monna  Beatrice  as  it  was  humanly 
possible  for  such  a  man  to  be  in  love  with  such  a 
maid.  He  was  in  love,  of  course,  with  the  great 
houses  that  Messer  Folco  owned,  with  the  broad 
lands  that  fattened  Messer  Folco's  vineyards;  for 
though  he  had  houses  of  his  own  and  broad  lands 
in  abundance,  wealth  ever  covets  wealth.  But  I 
conceive  that  whatever  of  god-like  essence  was 
muffled  in  the  hulk  of  his  composition  was  quick- 
ened by  the  truly  unearthly  beauty  of  that  pale 
226 


A   WORD    FOR    MESSER   SIMONE 

face  with  its  mystic  smile  and  the  sweet  eyes  that 
seemed  to  see  sights  denied  to  the  commonalty. 
I  think  Messer  Simone  was  in  love  with  Beatrice 
very  much  as  I  might  have  been,  out  of  very  won- 
der at  a  thing  so  rare  and  fair  and  unfamiliar.  I 
was  never,  as  I  have  said,  in  love  with  Folco's 
daughter;  my  tastes  are  simpler,  more  carnal;  give 
me  an  Ippolita  in  my  affectionate  hours,  and  I  ask 
nothing  better.  Love  for  me  must  be  a  jolly  com- 
panion, never  squeamish,  never  chilly,  never  ex- 
pecting other  homage  than  such  salutations  as 
swordsmen  may  use  for  preliminary  to  a  hot  en- 
gagement. Messer  Dante  has  written  a  very  beau- 
tiful book  on  his  business,  its  words  all  fire  and 
golden  air,  but  I  wrote  my  rhymes  in  a  tavern  with 
red  wine  at  my  elbow  and  a  doxy  on  my  knee.  I 
wonder  which  of  us  will  be  remembered  longest. 

Yet  if  I  was  never  in  love  with  Beatrice,  I  could 
understand  the  matter,  and  feel  how  the  thick- 
headed, thick-hearted,  thick-fingered  giant  must 
shiver  at  the  unfamiliar  twinges  and  rigors.  When 
a  man  of  such  a  kind  finds  himself  in  such  a  dilem- 
ma, he  is  in  much  such  a  case  as  if  he  were  sick  of 
some  childish  ailment  more  dangerous  to  maturity 
than  to  youth.  The  thought  that  another  should 
challenge  his  right  or  traverse  his  desire  galled  him 
to  a  choler  little  short  of  madness.  Wherefore,  if 
he  had  hated  the  Cavalcanti  faction  before,  he 
hated  them  a  thousand  times  more  now,  seeing  that 
227 


THE    GOD    OF    LOVE 

Dante  was  of  their  number,  this  Dante  that  had 
gained  a  rose  of  lady  Beatrice,  and  wore  it  next  his 
heart  no  doubt,  and  had  denied  him  and  defied  him 
with  such  cheer  and  cunning,  and  dared  to  make 
verses  in  praise  of  his  lady.  If  Simone  had  wished 
ere  this  that  the  Cavalcanti  party  was  ruined,  now 
he  was  resolved  upon  its  ruin,  and  for  no  reason 
more  strongly  than  because  it  included  Dante  in  its 
company.  In  this  resolve,  I  say  again,  I  cannot 
honestly  blame  Messer  Simone.  He  only  acted  as 
most  of  us  would  have  acted  if  we  had  been  in  his 
place. 

Messer  Simone,  I  must  cheerfully  admit,  had  cal- 
culated his  plans  cleverly  enough.  Long  before 
his  magnificent  appearance  at  Messer  Folco's 
house  he  had  been  at  the  pains  to  make  himself 
aware  that  the  bulk  of  the  youth  of  the  city  were 
with  him  hand  and  heart  in  his  desperate  advent- 
ure. To  do  the  youth  of  Florence  the  merest 
justice,  it  was  every  ready  to  risk  its  life  cheerfully 
for  the  advantage  of  the  city,  and,  furthermore,  for 
the  sheer  lust  of  fighting.  What  Messer  Simone 
had  hoped  to  gain  at  Folco's  house,  and,  indeed, 
had  succeeded  in  gaining,  was  the  allegiance  of 
certain  young  men  of  the  Cavalcanti  inclining,  ad- 
herents of  the  Reds,  that  were  not  in  the  natural 
way  of  things  affected  over  kindly  to  him.  All  this 
he  had  accomplished  very  successfully.  The  heady 
enthusiasm  upon  which  he  had  cunningly  counted, 
228 


A    WORD   FOR    MESSER   SIMONE 

the  presence  of  fair  women  whose  sweet  breaths 
are  ever  ready  to  fan  the  flame  of  the  war-like  spirit, 
the  stimulating  influences  of  wine  and  light  and 
laughter  and  dancing — all  these  had  played  their 
paits  in  furthering  Messer  Simone's  aims  by  spur- 
ring the  Florentine  chivalry  to  a  pitch  of  exuber- 
ance, at  which  any  proposal  made  in  a  sounding 
voice  in  the  name  of  the  God  of  War  might  be 
relied  upon  to  carry  them  away.  As  you  know,  it 
did  so  carry  them  away,  and  Messer  Simone's  book 
was  scrawled  thick  with  hurried  signatures,  and, 
best  of  all  for  his  pleasure,  it  carried  at  last  the 
name  of  Messer  Dante,  and  best  of  all,  perhaps, 
for  his  personal  advantage,  it  carried  the  name  of 
Messer  Guido  Cavalcanti. 

I  know  very  well,  looking  back  on  those  old  days, 
that  were  so  much  better  than  these  new  days, 
that  if  Messer  Simone  had  failed  to  lure  Messer 
Dante  into  that  immediate  scheme  of  his,  and  had 
so  compelled  a  postponement  of  his  revenge,  he 
would  still  have  carried  out  his  purpose  of  sending 
the  others  that  were  his  enemies  to  their  deaths. 
But,  in  his  piggish  way,  Messer  Simone  had  a  kind 
of  knowledge  of  men.  He  that  was  all  ungenerous 
and  bestial — he,  this  most  unknightly  giant — he 
could  realize,  strangely  enough,  what  a  generous 
and  uplifted  nature  might  do  on  certain  occasions 
when  the  trumpets  of  the  spirit  were  loudly  blowing. 
And  it  was  a  proof  of  his  mean  insight  that  he  had 

22Q 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

spread  his  net  in  the  sight  of  the  bird  and  had 
snared  his  quarry. 

Having  won  so  briskly  the  first  move  in  his  game, 
Messer  Simone  lost  no  time  in  making  the  second 
move.  Fortified,  as  he  was,  by  the  friendship  and 
the  approval  of  certain  of  the  leaders  of  the  city, 
he  could  confidently  count  upon  immunity  from 
blame  if  any  seeming  blunder  of  his  delivered  to 
destruction  a  certain  number  of  young  gentlemen 
whose  opinions  were  none  too  popular  with  many 
of  those  in  high  office.  So,  while  still  the  flambeaux 
of  the  festival  were  burning,  and  while  still  a  few 
late  guests  were  carousing  at  Messer  Folco's  tables, 
the  emissaries  of  Messer  Simone  were  busy  in 
Florence  doing  what  they  had  to  do.  Thus  it  was 
that  so  many  of  the  fiery-hearted,  fiery-headed 
youths  who  had  set  their  names  in  Messer  Simone's 
Golden  Book  found,  as  they  returned  gay  and  be- 
lated from  Messer  Folco's  house,  the  summons 
awaiting  them — the  summons  that  was  not  to  be 
disobeyed,  calling  upon  them  at  once  to  prove  their 
allegiance  to  the  Company  of  Death  and  obey  its 
initial  command.  It  is  well  to  recollect  that  not 
one  single  man  of  all  the  men  so  summoned  failed 
to  answer  to  his  name. 

It  is  in  that  regard,  too,  that  I  can  scarcely  do 

less  than  extend  my  admiration  to  Messer  Simone. 

For,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  was  a  very  great 

villain,   as  he  needs  must  be  counted,   being  the 

230 


A   WORD    FOR    MESSER   SIMONE 

enemy  of  our  party,  he  had  in  him  so  much  as  it 
were  of  the  sovereign  essence  of  manhood  that 
he  could  read  aright  men's  tempers.  And  he  knew 
very  well  that  such  words  as  "patriotism"  and  "ser- 
vice of  the  sweet  city"  and  "honorable  death  for  a 
great  cause"  are  as  so  many  flames  that  will  set  the 
torch  of  a  young  man's  heart  alight.  There  was  no 
generosity  in  Messer  Simone,  yet — and  this  I  think 
is  the  marvel — he  could  guess  at  and  count  upon 
the  generosity  of  others,  and  know  that  they  would 
be  ready  to  do  in  an  instant  what  he  would  never 
do  nor  never  dream  of  doing.  He  was  not  impulsive, 
he  was  not  high-spirited,  he  was  not  chivalrous;  yet 
he  could  play  upon  the  impulses,  the  high  spirits, 
and  the  chivalries  of  those  whom  he  wished  to 
destroy  as  dexterously  as  your  trained  musician 
can  play  upon  the  strings  of  a  lute.  Of  course  it  is 
impossible  not  to  admire  such  a  cunning,  however 
perverted  the  application  of  that  cunning  may  be. 
For  there  is  many  a  rascal  in  the  broad  world  that 
has  no  wit  to  appreciate  anything  outside  the  com- 
pass of  his  own  inclinations,  and  takes  it  for  granted 
that  because  he  is  a  rogue  with  base  instincts,  that 
can  only  be  appealed  to  by  base  lures,  all  other  men 
are  rogues  likewise,  and  only  basely  answerable  to 
some  base  appeal. 

Nor  can  I  do  otherwise  than  admire  him  for  the 
ingenuity  of  the  means  by  which  he  sought  to  at- 
tain his  end.     It  was  in  its  way  a  masterpiece  of 
231 


THE   GOD   OF    LOVE 

imagination,  for  one  that  throve  upon  banking,  to 
conceive  that  scheme  of  the  Company  of  Death, 
with  its  trumpet-call  to  youth  and  courage  and  the 
noble  heart.  It  was  excellently  clever,  too,  of 
Messer  Simone  so  to  engineer  his  contrivance  that 
while  he  seemingly  included  in  its  ranks  the  young 
bloods  of  every  party  in  the  state,  he  was  able,  by 
the  wise  adjustment  of  his  machinery,  to  deal,  or 
at  least  to  intend,  disaster  only  to  those  that  were 
opposed  to  him.  Caesar  might  well  have  been 
praised  for  so  intelligent  an  artifice,  and  yet  Messer 
Simone  of  the  Bardi,  for  all  that  he  was  brave 
enough,  was  very  far  from  being  a  Caesar.  How- 
ever, he  planned  his  plan  well,  and  I  praise  him  for 
it  all  the  more  light-heartedly  because  it  came  to 
grief  so  signally,  and  all  through  one  whose  enmity 
he  rated  at  too  light  a  price. 

It  is  ever  the  way  of  such  fellows  as  Simone,  that 
are  of  the  suspicious  temperament  and  quick  to  re- 
gard folk  as  their  enemies,  to  overlook,  in  their  com- 
putation of  the  perils  that  threaten  their  cherished 
purposes,  the  gravest  danger  of  all.  Simone  had 
plenty  of  enemies  in  Florence,  and  he  thought  that 
he  had  provided  against  all  of  them,  or,  at  the  least, 
all  that  were  seriously  to  be  reputed  troublesome, 
when  he  swaddled  and  dandled  and  matured  his 
precious  invention  of  the  Company  of  Death.  But 
while  he  grinned  as  he  read  over  the  list  of  the 
recruits  to  that  delectable  regiment,  and  hugged 
232 


A  WORD   FOR   MESSER   SIMONE 

himself  at  the  thought  of  how  he  would  in  a  morn- 
ing's work  thoroughly  purge  it  of  all  that  were  his 
antagonists,  he  suffered  his  wits  to  go  wool-gather- 
ing in  one  instance  where  they  should  have  been 
most  alert.  Either  he  clean  forgot  or  he  disdained 
to  remember  a  certain  wager  of  his,  and  a  certain 
very  fair  and  very  cunning  lady  with  whom  he 
had  laid  it,  and  to  whose  very  immediate  interest  it 
was  that  she  should  win  the  wager.  Messer  Simone 
seemed  either  to  think  that  Madonna  Vittoria  was 
not  in  earnest,  or  that  she  might  be  neglected  with 
safety.  Whichever  his  surmise,  Messer  Simone 
made  a  very  great  mistake. 

It  proved  to  be  one  of  the  greatest  factors  in  the 
sum  of  Messer  Simone's  blunder  that  he  should 
have  been  tempted  by  ironic  fortune  to  turn  for 
aid  in  the  ingenious  plot  he  was  hatching  to  the 
particular  man  upon  whom  he  pitched  for  assist- 
ance. Already  in  those  days  of  which  I  write,  far- 
away days  as  they  seem  to  me  now  in  this  green 
old  age — or  shall  I,  with  an  eye  to  my  monkish 
habit,  call  it  gray  old  age  ? — of  mine,  those  gentry 
existed  who  have  now  become  so  common  in  Italy, 
the  gentry  that  were  called  Free  Companions. 
These  worthy  personages  were  adventurers,  seek- 
ers after  fortune,  men  eager  for  wealth  and  power, 
and  heedless  of  the  means  by  which  they  attained 
them.  Italian,  some  of  them,  but  very  many 
strangers  from  far-away  lands.  It  was  the  custom 
233 


THE   GOD    OF   LOVE 

of  these  fellows  to  gather  about  them  a  little  army 
of  rough-and-ready  resolutes  like  themselves,  whom 
they  maintained  at  their  cost,  and  whose  services 
they  were  always  prepared  to  sell  to  any  person  or 
state  that  was  willing  to  pay  the  captain's  price 
for  their  aid.  And  these  captains,  as  their  fortunes 
waxed,  increased  the  numbers  of  their  following 
till  they  often  had  under  their  command  as  many 
lances  as  would  go  to  the  making  of  a  little  army. 
Of  these  captains  that  were  then  in  Italy,  and,  as 
I  have  said,  they  were  fewer  in  that  time  than 
they  are  to-day,  the  most  famous  and  the  most 
fortunate  was  the  man  who  was  known  as  Messer 
Griffo  of  the  Claw.  He  was  so  nicknamed,  I  think, 
because  of  the  figure  on  the  banner  that  he  flew — 
a  huge  dragon  with  one  fiercely  clawed  foot  lifted 
as  if  to  lay  hold  of  all  that  came  its  way. 

Messer  Griffo  was  a  splendid  fellow  to  look  at, 
as  big  every  way  as  Messer  Simone,  but  built  more 
shapely,  and  he  had  a  finer  face,  and  one  that 
showed  more  self-control,  and  he  was  never  given 
to  the  beastly  intemperances  that  degraded  the 
Messer  Simone.  Messer  Griffo  and  his  levy  of 
lances  lived  in  a  castle  that  he  held  in  the  hills 
some  half-way  between  Florence  and  Arezzo.  He 
was,  as  I  believe,  by  his  birth  an  Englishman,  with 
some  harsh,  unmusical,  outlandish  name  of  his  own 
that  had  been  softened  and  sweetened  into  the 
name  by  which  he  was  known  and  esteemed  in  all 
234 


A    WORD    FOR    MESSER   SIMONE 

the  cities  of  Italy.  He  had  been  so  long  a-soldiering 
in  our  country  that  he  spoke  the  vulgar  tongue 
very  neatly  and  swiftly,  and  was,  indeed,  ofttimes 
taken  by  the  people  of  one  town  or  province  in  our 
peninsula  for  a  citizen  of  some  other  city  or  prov- 
ince of  Italy.  So  that  his  English  accent  did  him 
no  more  harm  in  honest  men's  ears  than  his  Eng- 
lish parentage  offended  their  susceptibilities.  For 
the  rest,  he  was  of  more  than  middle  age,  but  seemed 
less,  was  of  amazing  strength  and  daring,  and  a 
great  leader  of  Free  Companions. 

At  the  time  of  which  I  tell  he  was  in  command 
of  a  force  of  something  like  five  hundred  lances, 
that  were  very  well  fed,  well  kept,  well  equipped, 
and  ready  to  serve  the  quarrel  of  any  potentate  of 
Italy  that  was  willing  to  pay  for  them.  He  had 
just  captained  his  rascals  very  gallantly  and  satis- 
factorily in  the  service  of  Padua,  and  having  made 
a  very  considerable  amount  of  money  by  the  trans- 
action, was  now  resting  pleasantly  on  his  laurels, 
and  in  no  immediate  hurry  to  further  business. 
For  if  Messer  Griffo  liked  fighting,  as  is  said  to  be 
the  way  of  those  islanders,  he  did  not  like  fighting 
only,  but  recognized  frankly  and  fully  that  life  has 
other  joys  to  offer  to  a  valiant  gentleman.  His 
long  sojourn  in  our  land  had  so  civilized  and  hu- 
manized him  that  he  could  appreciate,  after  a 
fashion,  the  delicate  pleasures  that  are  known  to 
us  and  that  are  denied  to  those  that  abide  in  his 
16  235 


THE    GOD    OF    LOVE 

frozen,  fog-bound,  rain-whipped  island — the  de- 
lights of  fine  eating,  fine  drinking,  fine  living,  fine 
loving.  Honestly,  I  must  record  that  he  took  to  all 
these  delectations  very  gayly  and  naturally,  for  all 
the  world  as  if  he  had  the  grace  to  be  born,  I  will 
not  say  a  Florentine,  but  say  a  man  of  Padua,  of 
Bologna,  or  Ferrara.  In  a  word,  he  had  all  the 
semblance  of  a  very  fine  gentleman,  and  when  he 
was  not  about  his  proper  business  of  cutting  throats 
at  so  much  a  day,  he  moved  at  his  ease  with  a  very 
proper  demeanor. 

When  Messer  Simone  began  to  hatch  his  little 
conspiracy  of  the  Company  of  Death,  he  bethought 
him  of  Messer  Griffo,  that  was  then  at  liberty  and 
living  at  ease,  and  he  sent  to  the  Free  Companion 
a  message,  entreating  him  to  visit  Florence  and  be 
his  guest  for  a  season,  as  he  had  certain  matters 
of  moment  to  communicate  to  him.  Now  if  this 
GrifFo  liked  idling  very  well,  he  did  not  like  it  to 
the  degree  that  would  permit  him  to  push  on  one 
side  a  promising  piece  of  business.  This  is,  I  be- 
lieve, the  way  of  his  country-people,  that  are  said 
to  be  traders  before  all,  though  thereafter  they  are 
sailors  and  soldiers.  When  the  message  of  Messer 
Simone  reached  him,  he  appreciated  very  instantly 
the  value  of  Messer  Simone's  acquaintance,  and 
the  probability  of  good  pay  and  good  pickings  if 
he  found  reason  to  enter  the  Bardi's  service.  So 
with  no  more  unwillingness  than  was  reasonable, 
236 


A   WORD    FOR    MESSER   SIMONE 

considering  that  he  was  passing  the  time  very  hap- 
pily in  his  house  with  pretty  women  and  jolly  pot- 
companions,  he  made  answer  to  the  message  that 
he  would  wait  upon  Messer  Simone  very  shortly  in 
the  fair  city  of  Florence.  In  no  very  long  time 
after  he  kept  his  word,  and  came  to  Florence  to 
have  speech  with  Messer  Simone  and  drink  his 
wine  and  consider  what  propositions  he  might 
have  to  make. 

It  was,  perhaps,  unfortunate  for  Simone  dei  Bardi 
that  while  there  were  many  points  of  resemblance 
between  himself  and  the  Free  Companion  that  was 
his  guest,  the  advantages  were  on  the  side  of  the 
stranger  rather  than  of  the  Florentine.  Both  were 
big  men,  both  were  strong  men,  both  were  prac- 
tised to  the  top  in  all  manner  of  manly  exercises. 
But  while  there  was  a  something  gross  about  the 
greatness  of  Simone  of  the  Bardi,  the  bulk  of  the 
Englishman  was  so  well  proportioned  and  rarely 
adjusted  that  a  woman's  first  thought  of  him  would 
be  rather  concerning  his  grace  than  his  size.  While 
Messer  Simone's  face  betrayed  too  plainly  in  its 
ruddiness  its  owner's  gratification  of  his  appetites, 
Messer  Griffo's  face  carried  a  clean  paleness  that 
commended  him  to  temperate  eyes,  albeit  he  could, 
when  he  pleased,  eat  and  drink  as  much  as  ever 
Messer  Simone 

Messer  Simone's  plan  had  one  great  merit  to  the 
mind  of  a  foreigner  denied  the  lucidity  of  our 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

Italian  intelligence — it  was  adorably  simple.  I  can 
give  it  to  you  now  in  a  nutshell  as  I  learned 
it  later,  not  as  I  knew  it  then,  for  I  did  not  know 
it  then.  Nobody  knew  it  then  except  Messer 
Simone  of  the  one  part,  and  Messer  Griffo  of  the 
other  part,  and  one  other  who  was  not  meant  to 
know  it  or  supposed  to  know  it,  but  who,  in  defence 
of  special  interests,  first  guessed  at  it,  and  then 
made  certain  of  it,  with  results  that  were  far  from 
satisfactory  to  Messer  Simone,  though  they  proved 
in  the  end  entirely  pleasing  to  Messer  Griffo. 

Here  and  now,  in  few  words,  was  Messer  Simone's 
plan.  Messer  Griffo  was  to  enter  his,  Simone's, 
service  at  what  rate  of  pay  he  might,  weighed  in 
the  scale  of  fairness  and  with  a  proper  calculation 
of  market  values,  demand.  At  least  Messer 
Simone  was  not  inclined  to  haggle,  and  the  five 
hundred  lances  would  find  him  a  good  paymaster. 
In  return  for  so  many  stipulated  florins,  Messer 
Griffo  was  to  render  certain  services  to  Messer 
Simone — obvious  services,  and  services  that  were 
less  obvious,  but  that  were  infinitely  more  im- 
portant. 

In  the  first  place,  the  Free  Companion  was 
ostensibly  to  declare  himself  Messer  Simone's  very 
good  and  zealous  subaltern  in  the  interests  of  the 
city  of  Florence,  and  very  especially  in  those  in- 
terests which  led  her  to  detest  and  honestly  long 
to  destroy  the  city  of  Arezzo.  For  this  proclaimed 
238 


A   WORD    FOR   MESSER   SIMONE 

purpose  he  was  to  hold  himself  and  his  men  in 
readiness  to  march,  when  the  time  came,  against 
Arezzo.  This  was  the  first  page  of  the  treaty. 
But  there  was  a  second  page  of  the  treaty  that,  if 
it  were  really  written  out,  would  have  to  be  written 
in  cipher.  By  its  conditions  Messer  Griffo  bound 
himself  to  wait  with  his  fellows  on  a  certain  ap- 
pointed night  at  a  certain  appointed  place  some 
half-way  between  Florence  and  Arezzo.  What  his 
business  was  to  be  at  this  appointed  time  and  place 
makes  pretty  reading  even  now,  when  almost  all 
that  were  concerned  in  the  conspiracy  have  passed 
away  and  are  no  more  than  moth-like  memories. 

When  Messer  Simone  dei  Bardi  contrived  to 
chain  upon  the  Company  of  Death  that  law  which 
bound  every  member  of  the  fellowship  to  unques- 
tioning obedience  to  its  founder,  he  had  in  his  mind 
from  the  start  the  goal  for  which  he  was  playing. 
At  a  certain  given  hour  a  certain  given  number  of 
the  Company  of  Death  would  be  called  upon  to 
foregather  outside  the  walls  of  Florence,  bent  on 
a  special  adventure  for  the  welfare  of  the  state. 
By  a  curious  chance  those  that  were  thus  sum- 
moned were  all  to  be  members  of  the  party  that 
was  opposed  to  Messer  Simone,  and  would  include 
all  those  youths  who,  like  Guido  Cavalcanti  and 
Dante  Alighieri,  had  incurred  the  special  detesta- 
tion of  the  would-be  dictator. 

The  rest  of  the  scheme  was  as  easy  as  whistling. 
239 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

The  hot-headed,  hot-hearted  gallants  of  the  Com- 
pany of  Death  were  to  ride  swiftly  in  the  direction 
of  Arezzo,  carrying  with  them  the  information  that 
they  would  be  reinforced  half-way  upon  their 
journey  by  a  levy  of  mercenaries  under  the  com- 
mand of  Griffo.  It  was,  however,  privately  ar- 
ranged between  Simone  and  Griffo  that  when  the 
young  Florentines  made  their  appearance  they 
were  to  be  very  promptly  and  decisively  put  to  the 
sword,  after  which  deed  Messer  Griffo  and  his  fol- 
lowers were  to  betake  themselves  to  Arezzo,  declare 
themselves  the  saviors  of  that  city,  and  insist  on 
entering  its  service  at  a  price.  After  a  little  while 
Messer  Griffo  was  to  make  his  peace  with  indignant 
Florence  by  offering  to  betray,  and,  in  due  course, 
by  betraying,  the  town  of  Arezzo  into  the  hands  of 
her  enemies.  By  such  ingenious  spider-spinnings 
of  sin  did  Messer  Simone  of  the  Bardi  promise  him- 
self that  he  would  within  a  very  little  space  of  time 
cleanse  Florence  of  the  pick  of  his  enemies,  and 
also  earn  the  gratitude  of  her  citizens  by  placing 
Arezzo  within  their  power.  This  was  a  case  of 
killing  two  birds  with  one  stone  that  mightily  de- 
lighted Messer  Simone,  and  he  made  sure  that  he 
had  found  the  very  stone  that  was  fit  for  his  fingers 
in  the  excellent,  belligerent  Free  Companion. 

It  is  whimsical  to  reflect  that  all  would  probably, 
nay,  almost  certainly,  have  gone  as  Messer  Simone 
desired   if  only  Messer   Simone  had   not  been  so 
240 


A   WORD    FOR   MESSER   SIMONE 

bullishly  besotted  as  to  leave  the  name  of  a  certain 
lady  out  of  his  table  of  calculations;  for  Messer 
Griffo  liked  the  scheme  well  enough.  Though  it 
was,  as  it  were,  a  double-edged  weapon,  cutting 
this  way  at  the  Florentines  of  one  party  and  that 
way  at  Arezzo,  it  was  a  simple  scheme  enough  that 
required  no  feigning  to  sustain  it,  no  dissimulation — 
qualities  these  apparently  repugnant  to  the  English 
heart.  Griffo  also  liked  the  florins  of  Messer 
Simone  that  were  to  be  spent  so  plenteously  into  his 
exchequer,  and  he  liked  exceedingly  the  prospect 
of  the  later  plunder  of  Arezzo.  That  he  did  not 
like  Messer  Simone  very  much  counted  for  little 
in  the  business.  It  was  no  part  of  his  practice  to 
like  or  dislike  his  employers,  so  long  as  they  paid 
him  his  meed.  Still,  perhaps  the  fact  that  if  Si- 
mone had  not  been  his  employer  he  would  have  dis- 
liked him  may  have  counted  as  an  influence  to 
direct  the  course  of  later  events. 

Certainly  Messer  Griffo  had  no  compunctions, 
no  prickings  of  the  conscience,  to  perturb  or  to  de- 
flect the  energy  of  his  keen  intelligence  from  follow- 
ing the  line  marked  out  for  it.  That  he  was  to 
dispatch  without  quarter  the  flower  of  the  youth  of 
Florence  troubled  him,  as  I  take  it,  no  whit.  He 
was  too  imperturbable,  too  phlegmatic  for  that. 
Had  he  been  of  our  race  he  might,  perhaps,  have 
sighed  over  their  fate,  for  we  that  are  of  the  race 
of  Rome  have  some  droppings  of  the  old  Roman 
241 


THE    GOD   OF    LOVE 

pity  as  ingredients  in  our  composition.  Messer 
Griffo  was  no  such  fantastico,  but  a  plain,  straight- 
forward, journeyman  sword-bearer  that  would  kill 
any  mortal  or  mortals  whom  he  was  paid  to  kill, 
unless — and  here  is  the  key  to  his  character  and  the 
explanation  of  all  that  happened  after — unless  he 
was  paid  a  better  price  by  some  one  else  not  to  kill 
his  intended  victims.  In  this  particular  business 
he  was,  maugre  Messer  Simone's  beard,  paid  a  bet- 
ter price  not  to  do  what  Simone  paid  a  less  price 
to  have  done.  What  that  price  was  you  shall  learn 
in  due  course. 


XIX 

THE    RIDE    IN   THE    NIGHT 

'T'H  ROUGH  all  the  quiet  of  that  divine  night 
1  the  minions  of  the  Messer  Simone  had  slipped 
hither  and  thither  through  the  moon-lit  streets  of 
Florence,  bearing  the  orders  of  the  captain  of  the 
Company  of  Death  to  certain  of  his  loyal  lieutenants 
and  faithful  federates.  And  the  order  that  each  man 
received  was  to  report  himself  ready  for  active 
service  and  properly  armed  at  the  gate  of  the  city 
which  gave  upon  the  highroad  that  led  in  the  ful- 
ness of  time  to  Arezzo.  It  was  a  curious  fact, 
though  of  course  it  was  not  realized  until  later, 
that  no  one  of  these  summonses  was  delivered  to 
any  man  other  than  a  man  known  to  be  a  member 
of  the  Red  party,  and,  therefore,  by  the  same  token, 
one  that  was  an  opponent  of  Messer  Simone  dei 
Bardi  and  his  friends  of  the  Yellow  League.  The 
call  to  each  man  told  him  that  at  the  tryst  he  would 
find  a  horse  ready  to  carry  him  to  his  destination. 

Each  man  that  received  that  summons  had  but 
a  little  while  before  been  feasting  blithely  at  the 
house  of  Messer   Folco.     Each  man   hastened   to 
243 


THE    GOD    OF   LOVE 

obey  his  summons  without  a  sinister  thought,  with- 
out a  fear.  Each  man  hastily  armed  himself,  hur- 
riedly flung  his  cloak  about  him,  and  sped  swiftly 
from  his  abode  or  lodging  across  the  night-quiet 
streets  to  the  appointed  meeting-place.  Each  man, 
on  arrival  at  the  indicated  gate,  found  the  warders 
awake  and  ready  for  him,  ready  on  his  production 
of  his  summons  to  pass  him  through  the  great  un- 
bolted doors  into  the  liberty  of  the  open  country. 
The  later  arrivals  found  those  that  had  answered 
earlier  to  the  call  waiting  for  them  in  the  gray 
vagueness  between  night  and  dawn,  each  man 
standing  by  a  horse's  head,  while  a  number  of  other 
horses  in  the  care  of  a  company  of  varlets  waited, 
whinnying  and  shivering  in  the  shadow  of  the  walls, 
to  be  chosen  from  by  the  new-comers.  Every  man 
that  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  gateway  that 
night  found  Maleotti  waiting  for  him  on  the  other 
hand  with  a  smile  of  welcome  on  his  crafty  face, 
and  whispered  instructions  on  his  evil  lips. 

Those  instructions  were  simple  enough.  The  lit- 
tle company  of  gallant  gentlemen,  citizens,  for  the 
most  part,  in  the  flower  of  their  youth,  and  certainly 
the  very  flower  of  the  Red  party,  was  to  fall  under 
the  temporary  command  of  Messer  Guido  Caval- 
canti.  Messer  Guido  was  to  conduct  the  party, 
which  numbered  in  all  some  two  hundred  souls,  to 
a  designated  place,  a  thickly  wooded  spot  some  half- 
way between  Arezzo  and  Florence.  Here  the  ad- 
244 


THE    RIDE   IN   THE    NIGHT 

venturers  were  to  find  waiting  for  them  a  company 
of  Free  Companions,  some  six  hundred  lances,  under 
the  command  of  the  very  illustrious  condottiere, 
Messer  Griffo  of  the  Claw,  to  whom,  at  the  point  of 
conjunction,  Messer  Guido  was  instantly  to  surren- 
der his  temporary  leadership  of  the  dedicated  fellow- 
ship. After  that  it  was  for  Messer  Griffo  to  decide 
the  order  of  the  enterprise  and  the  form  in  which 
the  attack  upon  Arezzo  was  to  be  made.  These 
were  very  plain  and  simple  instructions,  very  sim- 
ple to  follow,  very  simple  to  understand,  very  easy 
to  obey.  No  man  of  all  the  some  two  hundred 
men  to  whom  they  were  confided  by  Maleotti,  or 
one  of  Maleotti's  comrades,  required  to  be  told 
them  a  second  time  or  felt  the  need  to  ask  a  single 
explanatory  question. 

It  was  true  enough,  as  Messer  Simone  had  said, 
that  the  rogue  Ghibellines  of  Arezzo  had  a  mind  to 
deal  Florence  an  ugly  stroke,  if  ever  they  could, 
and  that  the  hope  of  the  Aretines  was  to  trap  the 
Florentines  in  a  snare.  As  you  know,  Messer 
Simone  had  hatched  a  double-edged  plot,  though 
we  young  hot-heads  of  the  Company  of  Death  knew 
of  but  one-half  of  its  purpose.  He  had  caused  in- 
formation to  be  sent  to  Arezzo  that  there  was  a 
traitor  within  their  walls  who  was  prepared  on  a 
certain  night  to  let  in  a  certain  number  of  Floren- 
tines, who  thus  would  seize  and  hold  one  of  the 
gates  until  reinforcements  came  from  Florence  to 
245 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

secure  the  weakened  city.  He  schemed  all  this 
with  the  aid  of  a  Guelph  that  dwelt  in  Arezzo  as  a 
red-hot  Ghibelline.  Now,  it  would  have  been  sim- 
ple enough  for  him  after  this  to  send  the  little  hand- 
ful of  Florentines  against  a  warned  Arezzo  and 
have  them  cut  to  pieces  by  an  Aretine  ambuscade. 
But  his  purpose  went  further  than  merely  demolish- 
ing a  number  of  his  enemies.  He  wanted  to  win 
Arezzo,  if  he  could,  as  well.  So,  by  his  machina- 
tions, he  arranged  that  the  forces  of  Arezzo  should 
be  out  to  meet  and  overthrow  the  adventurous 
Florentines,  whereafter  they  might  march  on  Flor- 
ence and  take  the  city  unawares.  But,  to  counter- 
act this,  he  made  his  arrangements  with  Messer 
Griffo,  who  was,  in  one  and  the  same  job,  to  mas- 
sacre the  Florentines  of  the  Red  and  give  battle  to 
the  Aretines  unaware  of  his  presence,  and  so,  at  a 
stroke,  rid  Simone  of  his  enemies,  and  cover  him 
with  patriotic  glory. 

It  will  be  seen  by  this  that  Messer  Simone,  if 
treacherous  to  his  enemies  within  the  city,  was  in 
nowise  treacherous  to  the  city  herself.  But  we  were 
ignorant  of  his  wiles  that  night,  as  we  gathered  to- 
gether outside  the  gates. 

In  an  amazingly  short  space  of  time  we  were  all 
a-horseback,  and  riding  quietly  through  the  night 
on  the  road  toward  Arezzo,  with  Messer  Maleotti, 
on  a  high-mettled  mount,  shepherding  us  as  we 
rode,  as  if  we  were  so  many  simple  sheep  and  he 
246 


THE    RIDE   IN   THE   NIGHT 

our  pastor.  I,  that  had  come  late  to  the  meeting- 
place,  had  sought  for  and  found  Messer  Dante, 
after  a  little  seeking  hither  and  thither  through  the 
press  of  eager,  generous  youths  that  were  bestirring 
themselves  to  strike  a  good  stroke  for  Florence  that 
night.  I  found  him  standing  quietly  alone,  with 
his  hand  resting  in  a  kindly  command  upon  the 
neck  of  the  steed  that  he  had  chosen,  and  a  look  of 
great  happiness  softening  the  native  sternness  of 
his  regard.  I  stood  by  him  in  silence  till  we  rode, 
for  after  our  first  salutation  he  chose  to  be  taciturn, 
and  that  in  no  unfriendly  seeming,  but  as  one  might 
that  had  great  thoughts  to  think  and  counted  very 
certainly  upon  the  acquiescence  of  a  friend.  And 
I  was  ever  a  man  to  respect  the  humors,  grave  or 
merry,  of  my  friends. 

So  I  stood  by  him  and  held  my  peace  until  the 
muster-roll  of  our  fellowship  was  completed,  and 
it  seemed  good  to  Maleotti  that  the  signal  should 
be  given  for  our  departure  upon  our  business.  But 
while  I  waited  I  looked  hither  and  thither  through 
the  moon-lit  gloom  to  discern  this  face  and  that  of 
familiar  youth,  and  as  I  noted  them  and  named 
them  to  myself,  I  was  dimly  conscious  of  a  thought 
that  would  not  take  shape  in  words,  and  yet  a 
thought  that,  all  unwittingly,  troubled  me.  I 
seemed  like  a  child  that  tries,  and  tries  in  vain,  to 
recall  some  duty  that  was  set  upon  it,  and  that  has 
wickedly  slipped  its  memory.  Man  after  man  of 
247 


THE    GOD    OF    LOVE 

the  figures  that  moved  about  me  in  the  darkness 
was  well  known  to  me.  Those  faces,  those  figures, 
were  the  faces  and  figures  of  intimates  whose  pleas- 
ures I  shared  daily,  companions  with  whom  I  had 
grown  up,  playfellows  in  the  days  when  we  gam- 
bolled in  the  streets,  playfellows  now  in  the  pleasant 
fields  of  love  and  revelry.  What  could  there  be,  I 
asked  myself,  almost  unconscious  that  I  did  so 
question — what  could  there  be  in  the  presence  of 
so  many  well-known,  so  many  well-liked,  so  many 
well-trusted  gentlemen,  to  make  me  feel  so  inex- 
plicably ill  at  ease  ?  Where  can  a  man  stand  better, 
I  seemed  to  ask  myself,  than  in  the  centre  of  a 
throng  of  men  that  are  all  his  friends  ?  Thus  I 
puzzled  and  fumed  in  the  silent  minutes  ere  we 
started,  struggling  with  my  unaccountable  mis- 
givings, not  realizing  that  it  was  the  very  fact  that 
all  about  me  were  my  friends  which  was  the  cause 
of  my  most  natural  disquiet.  It  was  not  until  we 
were  all  in  the  saddle  and  well  upon  our  way  to 
Arezzo,  that  with  a  sudden  clearness  my  muffled 
thought  asserted  itself,  and  I  must  needs  make  it 
known  at  once  to  Dante,  at  whose  side  I  rode. 

"Friend  of  mine,"  I  said  to  him,  in  a  low  voice, 
"I  would  not  willingly  seem  either  suspicious  or 
timorous,  and  I  hope  I  am  neither.  But  I  think  I 
have  reason  for  some  unquiet.  I  have  noticed 
something  that  seems  curious  to  me  in  the  com- 
position of  our  company." 
248 


THE   RIDE   IN   THE    NIGHT 

To  my  surprise  he  turned  to  me  a  smiling  face, 
as  of  one  that  was  too  well  contented  with  his  star 
to  be  fretted  by  wayward  chances.  "I  think  I 
know  what  you  would  say,"  he  answered  me,  cheer- 
fully, "and  indeed  I  have  noticed  what  you  have 
noticed — that  we  who  ride  thus  to-night  are  all  the 
partisans  of  one  party  in  Florence.  There  is  not, 
so  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  see,  a  single  man  of 
the  other  favor  among  us." 

Now  this  was  exactly  the  fact  that  I  had  at  last 
been  able  to  realize,  the  portentous  fact  which  had 
thrilled  my  spirit  with  significant  alarms,  the  fact 
to  which  I  wished  to  call  his  attention,  and,  behold, 
he  had  anticipated  my  observation  and  seemed  to 
draw  from  it  an  agreeable  and  exhilarating  de- 
duction. 

"Is  it  not  a  compliment,"  he  went  on,  "to  us 
that  are  of  the  Red  party,  to  be  thus  signalled  out 
for  an  errand  of  such  great  danger,  and,  in  con- 
sequence, of  such  great  glory,  by  the  head  man  of  the 
Yellow  faction  ?  I  do  not  suppose,"  he  said,  with 
a  smile,  "that  Messer  Simone  has  planned  the  mat- 
ter solely  to  pleasure  us.  Doubtless  he  has  reasoned 
it  somewhat  thusly:  if  we  fail  in  our  enterprise, 
why  then  he  has  very  cleverly  got  rid  of  a  number 
of  his  adversaries." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  and  I  caught  at  the 
pause  to  interrupt  him  somewhat  petulantly.  "And 
if  we  succeed  ?"  I  said,  in  a  questioning  voice,  for 
249 


THE    GOD   OF    LOVE 

I  was  in  that  happy  age  of  youth  and  that  sanguin- 
ity  of  temperament  which  makes  it  hard  to  realize 
,that  failure  can  associate  its  grayness  or  its  black- 
ness with  one's  own  bright  colors  of  hope.  "If 
we  succeed  ?" 

"If  we  succeed,"  Dante  echoed  me,  slowly,  "why, 
if  we  succeed,  then  will  not  Messer  Simone  appear 
indeed  to  be  a  very  generous  and  perfect  gentleman, 
who  was  willing  to  give  this  great  opportunity  for 
honor  and  conflict  to  those  that  were  so  hotly  op- 
posed to  him  and  his  people  in  the  brawls  of  the 
city  ?" 

I  could  not,  for  my  own  part,  see  Messer  Simone 
in  this  character  of  the  high-minded  and  chivalrous 
knight,  and  Madonna  Vittoria's  words  of  warning 
buzzed  in  my  ears  with  a  boding  persistence.  To 
be  frank,  I  felt  qualmish,  and  though  I  did  not 
exactly  say  as  much,  having  a  sober  regard  for  the 
censure  of  my  friend,  yet,  in  a  measure,  I  did  in- 
deed voice  my  doubts. 

But  my  dear  friend  was  not  to  be  fretted  by  my 
agitations,  and  much  to  my  surprise  and  some- 
thing to  my  chagrin,  would  indeed  scarcely  consider 
them  as,  to  my  thinking,  they  deserved  to  be  con- 
sidered. 

"I  feel  very  sure,"  he  said,  tranquilly,  "that  we 

shall  succeed  in  what  we  are  set  to  do  to-night, 

though   I  could  give  you  no  other  reason  for  my 

confidence  than  the  certainty  that  reigns  so  serenely 

250 


THE   RIDE   IN    THE   NIGHT 

in  my  heart.  Have  you  not  already  noted,  com- 
rade, for  all  that  you  are  young  and  the  way  of  the 
world  before  you,  how  there  sometimes  comes  to 
one,  although  rarely,  such  a  magic  mood  in  which 
the  liberated  spirit  seems  to  swim  in  an  exalted 
ether,  and  the  body  seems  to  move  uplifted  in  a 
world  made  to  its  liking  ?" 

It  was  at  a  later  time  that  I  learned  the  great 
cause  of  Messer  Dante's  contentment  and  serenity 
displayed  in  our  journey.  It  came,  in  the  main, 
from  the  fact  that  he  had  that  night  given  and 
taken  troth  with  Madonna  Beatrice,  and  that  he 
esteemed  himself,  as  most  men  esteem  themselves 
in  such  a  case,  though  not  all  as  rightly,  the  man 
the  most  happy  in  all  the  world.  But  this  joy  of 
his  had  its  complement  and  sustainer  in  a  marvel, 
a  portent  vouchsafed  to  him,  as  he  believed  and 
averred,  that  same  evening  and  journey.  For  as 
himself  told  me  thereafter,  he  was,  or  thought  him- 
self, companioned  through  all  that  night-riding  by 
a  youth  clad  after  the  fashion  of  the  Grecians,  that 
wore  a  crimson  tunic  and  that  rode  a  white  horse. 
Ever  and  anon  this  youth  turned  a  smiling  counte- 
nance upon  Dante,  as  one  that  bade  him  be  of  cheer, 
for  again  he  should  see  his  lady.  Dante  knew  that 
strange  and  beautiful  presence,  seen  of  him  alone, 
to  be  the  incarnation  of  the  God  of  Love  that  had 
already  appeared  to  him  before  this,  time  and  again, 
ever  since  that  morning  on  the  Place  of  the  Holy 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

Felicity,  where  he  beheld  for  the  second  time  the 
lady  Beatrice.  It  is  one  of  my  regrets  that  I  have 
never  been  favored,  on  my  own  account,  with  any 
such  celestial  apparitions,  but  I  am  glad  that  Dante 
was  so  graced,  and  I  wish  I  had  known  at  the  time 
that  Love  was  riding  by  our  side.  The  presence 
of  Love  in  the  Company  of  Death :  what  an  alle- 
gory for  a  poet! 

It  was  very  beautiful  to  hear  Messer  Dante  talk 
as  he  talked,  and  his  calm  reasoning,  together  with 
the  sweetness  and  serenity  of  his  confidence,  cheered 
me  mightily.  In  such  company,  and  hearkening 
to  such  speech,  it  was  impossible  to  be  down- 
hearted, and  as  the  brave,  hopeful  words  fell  from 
him,  I  that  had  been  not  a  little  in  the  dumps  grew 
blithe  to  whistling-point — not  that  I  did  whistle, 
of  course,  seeing  that  such  an  ebullition  of  high 
spirits  would  be  something  out  of  place  on  a  night 
march  toward  an  enemy's  country,  and  scarcely  to 
be  commended  by  your  strategists.  Some  may  say, 
when  they  learn  the  leave  of  my  tale,  that  it  makes 
an  ironic  commentary  on  Messer  Dante's  speech 
and  Messer  Dante's  conviction,  to  learn,  after  all, 
that  what  saved  us  from  the  destruction  that  was 
spread  for  our  feet  was  no  more  and  no  other  than 
the  craft  of  a  woman  and  a  light  o'  love.  But  me- 
thinks  the  answer  to  that  is,  that  the  instruments 
whereby  it  may  please  Heaven  to  work  out  its  pur- 
poses are  not  of  our  choosing,  but  of  Heaven's; 
252 


THE   RIDE   IN    THE   NIGHT 

and  those  that  cavil  may  recall,  to  their  own  abash- 
ment, how  one  that  was  of  the  same  way  of  life  as 
our  Vittoria  was  permitted  by  celestial  grace  to  be 
a  minister  unto  holiness.  I  will  not  venture  to  say 
that  Monna  Vittoria  did  that  which  she  did  do 
with  any  very  conscious  thought  of  serving  Heaven. 
Nay,  more,  I  am  very  sure  that,  as  far  as  she  knew, 
her  main  purpose  was  to  serve  herself;  but  it  is 
the  result  we  must  look  to  in  such  instances  as  these. 
After  all,  the  Sybil,  when  she  uttered  her  words  of 
wisdom  to  all  Greece,  was  as  ignorant  of  what  she 
communicated  as  a  jug  is  of  the  liquor  it  contains, 
and  yet  what  a  mighty  service  the  jug  renders  to 
your  true  toper! 

Now,  while  we  thus  wiled  away  the  journey  in 
such  profitable  conversation,  the  tide  of  the  night 
had  turned,  the  glory  of  the  summer  stars  had 
paled  and  faded  and  departed  from  the  lightening 
skies.  Behind  the  hills  dawn,  in  its  cloak  of  un- 
earthly colors,  was  beginning  to  fill  the  cup  of 
heaven,  and  the  multitude  of  small  birds,  waking 
from  their  slumbers,  unwinged  their  heads  and 
started  to  utter  their  matins  like  honest  choristers. 
The  world  that  had  been  all  black  and  silver,  like 
the  panoply  on  a  knightly  catafalque,  was  now 
flooded  with  a  gray  clearness  in  which  all  things 
showed  strange,  as  if  one  dreamed  of  them  rather 
than  saw  them.  Below  and  beyond  us  lay  a  great 
stretch  of  wooded  land,  and  here  it  was  that  we 
253 


THE   GOD    OF   LOVE 

knew  we  were  to  meet  our  reinforcement;  here  we 
realized  that  from  this  point  the  adventure  might 
veritably  be  said  to  begin.  Our  spirits  rose  with 
the  rising  day  to  the  blithest  altitudes;  already  we 
seemed  to  savor  the  taste  of  brisk  campaigning;  I 
think  we  all  longed  boyishly  for  action.  Pray  you, 
remember  that  the  most  of  us  were  very  young, 
that  to  most  of  us  the  events  of  life  had  still  some- 
thing of  the  zest  that  a  schoolboy  finds  in  robbing 
an  orchard  and  glutting  himself  with  its  treasures. 
But  while  most  of  us  were  thus  brimful  of  eager- 
ness, he  that  had  been  until  now  our  guide  and 
leader,  even  Simone's  man  Maleotti,  was  all  of  a 
sudden  retarded  in  his  progress  by  the  ill  conduct 
of  his  nag.  It  was  always  a  mettled  beast,  but 
now  it  turned  restive  and  took  to  all  kinds  of  buck- 
ing and  jibbing  and  shying,  that  seemed  strangely 
disconcerting  to  its  rider,  albeit  he  was  known  as  a 
skilful  cavalier.  So  Maleotti  must  needs  dis- 
mount and  look  to  his  girths  and  gear,  to  see  what 
ailed  his  steed,  while  we  rode  merrily  forward, 
eager  to  join  hands  with  those  that  we  knew  were 
awaiting  us  behind  the  mask  of  yonder  clump  of 
trees.  What  was  it  to  us  if  Maleotti  could  not 
handle  an  unmanageable  horse?  Behind  that 
brown  wood  Messer  Griffo  of  the  Dragon-flag  waited 
for  our  coming — Messer  Griffo,  the  famousest  sol- 
dier of  fortune  in  all  Italy.  Who  could  be  more 
lucky  than  we  to  be  thus  chosen  as  sharers  in  an 
254 


THE    RIDE   IN    THE    NIGHT 

enterprise  that  was  honored  by  the  alliance  of  so 
astonishing  a  condottiere?  If  I  were  to  judge  of 
all  our  fellowship  by  myself,  as  I  fairly  think  I 
may  judge,  then  I  can  assure  you  that  all  our 
pulses  were  drumming,  that  we  were  hungry  and 
thirsty  to  get  to  grips  with  the  devils  of  Arezzo. 

How  exquisitely  vain  is  youth!  We  who  rode 
and  thought  that  we  were  going  to  do  great  deeds 
and  win  endless  applause,  how  little  we  dreamed 
that  we  were  no  more  than  the  toys  of  chance,  the 
valueless  shuttles  between  a  rich  man's  gold  and 
the  kisses  of  a  courtesan.  We  that  likened  our- 
selves to  the  conquerors  of  worlds  were  no  better 
than  petty  pawns  on  an  unfriendly  chess-board, 
making  moves  of  which  we  knew  nothing,  in  obedi- 
ence to  forces  of  which  we  were  as  ignorant  as 
children.  All  we  knew,  all  we  cared  to  know,  in 
our  then  mood,  was  that  we  had  come  to  the  point 
where  it  was  ordained  that  we  were  to  meet  and 
join  forces  with  Messer  Griffo  of  the  Dragon-flag. 


XX 

THE    FIGHT  WITH    THOSE    OF   AREZZO 

THIS  was  what  was  to  have  happened  at  this 
point;  this  is  what  caused  Messer  Maleotti 
to  have  so  much  show  of  trouble  with  his  steed. 
The  little  company  of  Florentine  gentlemen  were  to 
have  joined  their  forces  with  those  that  rode  under 
the  Dragon-flag  of  Messer  Griffb,  were  to  have 
ridden  with  them  into  the  darkness  of  the  wood, 
and  were  then  and  there  incontinently  to  have  been 
cut  to  pieces  by  the  mercenaries.  Maleotti,  linger- 
ing behind  to  look  after  that  troublesome  horse 
of  his,  saw  that  much  of  this  came  very  properly  to 
pass.  As  the  Florentines  of  the  Company  of  Death 
came  within  view  and  hail  of  that  midway  wood, 
there  rode  out  to  greet  them  a  number  of  Free  Com- 
panions, with  Messer  GrifFo  at  their  head.  In  the 
gray  of  the  growing  dawn  Maleotti  could  recognize 
him  very  clearly  by  his  height  on  horseback  and 
his  burly  English  bulk,  and  Maleotti,  still  busy  with 
his  horse,  could  see  how  the  two  forces  joined 
hands,  so  to  speak,  and  how  the  free-lances  gathered 
around  the  little  company  of  youths  from  Florence, 
256 


THE  FIGHT  WITH  THOSE  OF  AREZZO 

and,  as  it  were,  swallowed  them  up  in  their  greater 
number,  and  how  the  whole  force,  thus  united,  dis- 
appeared into  the  darkness  of  the  wood,  as  the 
children  in  the  fairy  tale  disappear  into  the  mouth 
of  the  giant. 

Then  Maleotti  made  up  his  mind  that  he  had 
seen  enough,  and  congratulated  himself  upon  his 
wisdom  in  holding  aloof  from  that  meeting,  for,  as 
he  very  sensibly  reflected,  in  a  scuffle  of  the  sort 
that  was  arranged  to  follow,  your  mercenary  who 
is  paid  to  kill  is  not  always  clear-headed  enough  to 
distinguish  between  his  properly  appointed  victims 
and  a  respectable  individual  like  Maleotti,  who  was 
a  firm  friend  and  faithful  servant  of  the  master 
butcher.  So  Maleotti  mounted  on  his  horse,  which, 
now  that  we  were  out  of  sight,  had  very  suddenly 
and  unexpectedly  grown  quiet  again,  and  rode  off  at 
an  easy  walking  pace  toward  Florence,  congratulat- 
ing himself  and  his  master  upon  a  night's  work 
well  done. 

Yet  Maleotti  had  to  learn  that  it  does  not  always 
follow  in  life  that  because  the  first  portion  of  a 
carefully  prepared  plan  goes  as  it  was  intended  to 
go,  the  rest  of  the  plan  must  necessarily  move  with 
equal  success  along  its  appointed  lines.  Though 
Maleotti  was  as  sure  as  if  he  had  seen  it  of  our 
slaughter  in  the  forest  shambles,  there  came  no 
moment  in  that  journey  of  ours  through  the  dark- 
ness of  the  wood  when  Messer  Griffb,  drawing  his 
257 


THE    GOD    OF    LOVE 

sword,  thundered  an  appointed  order,  and  forces 
of  destruction  were  let  loose  upon  the  Company  of 
Death.  On  the  contrary,  Messer  Griffo  rode  very 
quietly  and  pleasantly  by  the  side  of  Messer  Guido, 
chatting  affably  of  the  affairs  of  Florence  and  the 
pleasures  and  advantages  of  a  morning  attack, 
when  you  take  your  enemy  by  surprise,  and  ever 
and  anon,  to  Messer  Guide's  surprise,  leading  the 
conversation  craftily  to  the  name  of  Monna  Vit- 
toria,  and  dwelling  enthusiastically  on  her  mani- 
fold charms  and  graces.  I,  still  by  the  side  of 
Dante,  trotted  on  in  the  most  blissful  unconscious- 
ness that  if  things  had  gone  as  they  were  intended 
to  go,  we  should  all  be  lying  on  the  carpet  of  the 
wood  with  our  throats  cut. 

It  was  only  later  that  I  learned,  partly  from  the 
lady  herself  that  was  the  main  cause  of  the  change, 
and  partly  from  Messer  Griffo,  in  a  moment  of  con- 
fidence over  a  flask  of  Lacrima  Christi,  when  all 
those  things  that  I  am  speaking  of  were  as  ancient 
as  the  Tale  of  Troy.  Julius  Caesar!  what  that 
morning's  business  might  have  been,  and  was  meant 
to  be,  by  our  friend  Simone!  It  seems  that  Monna 
Vittoria,  being  a  woman,  and  shrewd,  and  knowing 
her  Simone  pretty  well,  saw  clearer  through  the  de- 
vice of  the  Company  of  Death  when  it  was  first 
hinted  at  than  any  of  the  feather-headed  enthusi- 
asts who  were  eager  to  swell  its  levy.  And  being  a 
watchful  woman  and  a  cunning  and  a  clever,  she 
258 


THE  FIGHT  WITH  THOSE  OF  AREZZO 

soon  found  out  that  Messer  Simone  was  in  treaty 
with  Messer  Griffo  of  the  Dragon-flag,  and  feeling 
sure  that  what  she  might  fail  to  elicit  from  Simone 
she  could  get  from  Messer  Griffo,  she  was  at  pains 
to  make  herself  acquainted  with  that  gallant  ad- 
venturer, and  to  show  him  certain  favors  and 
courtesies  which  won  his  English  heart.  So  that  in 
a  little  while  Madonna  Vittoria  knew  all  about 
Simone's  purposes,  and  very  pleasantly  resolved  to 
baffle  them. 

In  her  opinion,  it  was  a  very  important  point  in 
her  game  that  Dante  should  be  alive  and  well,  and 
the  wooer  of  lady  Beatrice.  So  long  as  Dante  lived 
to  love  and  be  loved,  as  she,  with  her  cunning  in- 
tuition, guessed  him  to  love  and  be  loved,  so  long 
there  was  little  likelihood  that  Messer  Simone  would 
win  the  girl's  hand  and  his  wager,  and  leave  her, 
Vittoria,  very  patently  in  the  lurch.  She  reasoned 
rightly  that  such  a  maid  as  Beatrice  would  not 
yield  her  love  while  her  lover  lived,  and  she  hoped 
that  Messer  Folco,  for  all  he  liked  to  play  the 
Roman  father,  was  in  his  heart  over  fond  of  his 
daughter  to  seek  to  compel  her  to  a  hateful  mar- 
riage by  force.  It  was,  therefore,  of  the  first  im- 
portance to  Vittoria  to  thwart  the  devices  of  Simone 
having  for  their  object  the  death  of  Dante,  and,  to 
a  woman  like  Vittoria,  it  was  by  no  means  of  the 
first  difficulty  to  carry  out  her  purpose. 

The  winning  over  of  Messer  Griffo  was  no  very 
259 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

difficult  business.  He  was  paid  so  much  by  Messer 
Simone;  it  only  remained  for  Monna  Vittoria  to 
pay  him  more  to  secure  at  least  a  careful  considera- 
tion of  her  wishes.  She  pointed  out  to  the  con- 
dottiere  that  all  the  advantage  lay  for  him  in  doing 
what  she  desired  and  leaving  undone  what  was 
desired  by  Messer  Simone.  Messer  Griffo  would 
serve  Florence  by  preserving  the  lives  of  so  many 
of  her  best  citizens;  he  would  serve  Florence  by 
aiding  those  citizens  in  that  raid  upon  Arezzo,  from 
which  so  much  was  hoped;  he  would  serve  Florence 
by  saving  Messer  Simone  from  the  stain  of  such  un- 
necessary blood-guiltiness;  above  all,  which  to  her, 
and  indeed  to  the  Free  Companion,  seemed  perhaps 
the  most  important  point  in  the  argument,  he  would 
serve  Monna  Vittoria. 

Messer  Griffo  had  ever  an  eye  for  a  fine  woman, 
and  he  was  mightily  taken  with  Monna  Vittoria, 
and  made  his  taking  plain  in  his  bluff,  simple, 
soldierly  fashion  with  a  fine  display  of  jewels  and 
gold,  which  only  served  to  move  Monna  Vittoria 
to  laughter,  for  she  had  as  much  as  she  cared  to 
have  of  such  trifles,  and  was  not  to  be  purchased 
so.  But  she  clinched  her  bargain  with  him  by 
assuring  him,  when  she  paid  into  the  hands  of  a 
sure  and  trusted  third  party  the  overprice  agreed 
upon,  which  was  to  make  Messer  Griffo  false  to 
Messer  Simone,  that  after  the  return  to  Florence  of 
the  Company  of  Death  uninjured  by  him  or  his,  he 
260 


THE  FIGHT  WITH  THOSE  OF  AREZZO 

would  be  a  very  welcome  visitor  at  her  house,  and 
might  consider  himself  for  a  season  the  master  of 
everything  it  contained.  Messer  Griffo  was  in  his 
way  an  amorist  and  in  his  way  an  idealist,  to  the 
extent  of  regarding  one  pretty  woman  as  more  im- 
portant than  another  pretty  woman,  so  he  took 
Monna  Vittoria's  money  and  fooled  Messer  Simone, 
and  spared  the  lives  of  the  young  Florentine  gentle- 
men, and  rode  with  them  and  fought  with  them, 
as  you  shall  presently  hear. 

It  is  no  part  of  my  intention  to  rehearse  all  that 
happened  as  the  result  of  our  little  raid.  You  can 
read  all  about  it  at  great  length  elsewhere.  It  was, 
as  it  proved,  a  very  successful  little  raid.  The 
Aretines,  marching  out  of  their  stronghold  in  good 
force  to  assault  us,  whom  they  expected  to  find 
marching  in  all  innocence  to  our  doom,  were  very 
neatly  and  featly  taken  in  ambuscade  by  us.  For, 
by  the  advice  and  orders  of  Messer  Griffo,  who 
knew  his  business  if  ever  a  soldier  of  fortune  did, 
we  that  were  of  the  Company  of  Death,  we  that 
the  men  of  Arezzo  expected  to  see,  we  rode  the 
latter  part  of  our  ride  alone,  as  if  indeed  we  were 
the  only  attacking  force,  the  while  Messer  Griffo 
dissimulated  his  lances  easily  enough  in  the  woods 
and  valleys  adjacent.  And  when  the  Aretines  per- 
ceived us,  they  shouted  for  satisfaction  and  made 
to  fall  upon  us  pell-mell,  having  no  heed  of  order  or 
the  ordinances  of  war.  Then  it  was,  while  they 
261 


THE   GOD   OF    LOVE 

were  in  this  hurly-burly,  that  Messer  Griffo  launched 
his  men  upon  them  from  the  right  and  from  the 
left,  and  that  the  real  business  of  the  day  began.  For 
what  seemed  to  me  quite  a  long  space  of  time, 
though  indeed  the  whole  business  lasted  little  more 
than  an  hour,  there  was  some  very  pretty  fighting, 
with  the  solution  of  the  war-like  riddle  far  from 
certain.  For  the  Aretines  were  more  numerous 
than  we  expected  by  a  good  deal,  and,  for  all  they 
were  taken  by  surprise,  they  carried  themselves,  as 
I  must  confess,  with  a  very  commendable  display 
of  valor. 

To  be  entirely  honest,  I  must  confess  that  I 
remember  very  little  about  the  skirmish  or  scuffle 
or  battle  or  whatever  you  may  please  to  call  it. 
There  was  a  great  deal  of  charging  and  shouting, 
and  though  there  were  a  good  many  of  us  engaged 
on  both  sides  on  that  field,  it  seemed  to  me,  at  the 
time,  as  if  I  enjoyed  a  kind  of  isolation,  and  had  no 
immediate,  or  at  least  dangerous,  concern  with  all 
those  swords  and  lances  that  were  hacking  and 
thrusting  everywhere  about  me.  I  have  since  been 
told  by  tough  soldiers  that  when  they  were  tender 
novices  they  felt  much  the  same  as  I  felt  in  the 
clash  of  their  first  encounter,  felt  as  if  the  whole 
thing  were  a  business  that,  however  serious  and 
significant  to  others,  was  of  no  more  moment  than 
a  pageant  or  a  play  to  them  themselves  that  were 
having  their  first  taste  of  war.  Though  I  gave  and 
262 


THE  FIGHT  WITH  THOSE  OF  AREZZO 

took  some  knocks  as  the  others  did,  and  shouted 
as  they  shouted,  I  had  at  the  time  no  fear,  not  be- 
cause of  my  valor,  but  because  of  a  sudden  numb- 
ing of  my  wits,  which  left  me  with  no  intelligence  to 
do  otherwise  than  charge  and  shout  and  lay  about 
me  like  the  rest. 

I  am  glad  to  record  that  Dante  carried  himself 
valiantly;  not,  indeed,  that  I  saw  him  at  all  till 
the  tussle  was  over  and  such  of  our  enemies  as 
were  left  taking  to  their  heels  as  nimbly  as  might 
be.  But  I  had  it  on  the  word  of  Messer  Guido, 
who  could  see  as  well  as  do,  and  who  told  me  the 
tale,  that  our  friend  bore  himself  most  honorably 
and  courageously  in  the  skirmish,  which  ended  by 
beating  back  the  discomfited  and  diminished  Are- 
tines  within  the  shelter  of  their  walls.  It  was,  in- 
deed, but  a  petty  engagement,  yet  to  those  con- 
cerned it  was  as  serious  as  any  pitched  battle,  and 
afforded  the  same  chance  of  a  wreath  of  laurel  or 
a  broken  head.  And  it  seems  certain  that  our 
Dante  deserved  the  wreath  of  laurel.  He  showed 
a  little  pale  at  first,  according  to  Guido,  when  the 
moment  came  to  engage,  and  it  may  be  that  there 
was  a  little  trembling  of  the  unseasoned  members 
that  was  not  to  be  overmastered.  But  in  a  twin- 
kling our  Dante  was  as  calm  as  a  tempered  veteran, 
and  in  the  thickest  of  the  scrimmage  he  urged  him- 
self as  indifferent  to  peril  as  if,  like  Achilles  in  the 
old  story,  he  had  been  dipped  in  Styx. 
263 


THE   GOD    OF    LOVE 

What  he  told  me  himself  later,  as  we  rode  for 
home,  though  he  spoke  but  little  of  the  business 
and  unwillingly,  in  reply  to  my  eager  and  frequent 
questionings,  did  but  confirm  what  Guido  related. 
He  had,  he  admitted  frankly,  been  somewhat  scared 
at  first,  but  instantly  he  had  thought  of  his  lady, 
and  with  that  thought  all  terror  fell  away  from  him, 
and  his  one  desire  became  so  to  carry  himself  in 
that  encounter  as  to  be  deserving  of  her  esteem. 
Afterward  he  told  me  that  while  he  was  in  the 
tremors  of  that  first  and  unavoidable  alarm  he  was 
cheered  by  a  miracle.  You  know  already  how  the 
God  of  Love,  in  very  person,  had  ridden,  visible  only 
to  the  eyes  of  Dante,  by  Dante's  side  that  night, 
though  the  vision  vanished  at  the  time  when  the 
lances  of  the  Dragon-flag  rode  out  of  the  shelter- 
ing wood  to  welcome  our  coming.  Well,  now  it 
seems  that,  when  Dante  was  assailed  by  that  very 
human,  pitiable,  and  pardonable  pain  and  frailty, 
he  suddenly  became  aware  again  of  the  God  of 
Love  that  was  riding  hard  by  him,  but  this  time  a 
little  in  front,  and  this  time  on  a  great  black  war- 
horse.  It  seemed  to  Dante  that  the  wonderful 
youth  turned  a  little  in  his  saddle  as  he  rode,  and 
showed  his  comely  face  to  Dante  and  smiled,  and 
it  appeared  to  Dante  as  if  Love  said  to  him,  "Where 
I  go,  will  not  you  go  too  ?"  And  at  the  sound  of 
those  words,  Dante's  heart  was  as  hot  as  fire  within 
his  body,  and  he  carried  himself  very  valiantly  in 
264 


THE  FIGHT  WITH  THOSE  OF  AREZZO 

the   battle,   as   every  man   should  that  serves  his 
city  and  loves  a  fair  woman. 

Now  if  you  that  read  me  be  at  all  inclined  to 
wonder  why  we  rode  back  so  rapidly  to  Florence  on 
the  very  top  of  our  victory,  I  am  very  ready  to  tell 
you  the  why.  It  was  Messer  Griffo's  doing,  which  is 
as  much  as  to  say  that  it  was  Monna  Vittoria's 
doing,  who  had  laid  her  commands  upon  her  trusty 
Free  Companion  for  her  own  ends.  When  the  bat- 
tered Aretines  had  scurried  back  within  the  shelter 
of  their  walls,  we  would  have  been  ready  and  will- 
ing enough,  we  of  the  Company  of  Death,  to  stay 
and  besiege  them.  But  Messer  Griffb  would  not 
have  it  so,  and  Messer  Griffb  was  our  captain. 
His  orders  were  that  as  soon  as  we  were  breathed 
after  our  battle — for  I  like  to  call  it  a  battle — and 
had  eaten  and  drunk  of  the  food  and  wine  with 
which  the  mercenaries  were  plentifully  provided, 
we  should  ride  back  to  Florence  as  briskly  as  might 
be,  and  uplift  the  hearts  of  our  fellow-citizens  with 
our  joyful  tidings  of  triumph.  Which  is  why  we 
got  back  to  Florence  on  the  morning  of  our  engage- 
ment, as  Monna  Vittoria  wished,  but  not  so  early  as 
Monna  Vittoria  would  have  wished  if  she  had 
known  what  was  happening  in  our  absence — known 
what  you  are  about  to  know. 


XXI 

MALEOTTI    BEARS    FALSE   WITNESS 

ON  that  summer  morning  which  saw  us  riding 
homeward,  all  flushed  and  triumphant  over 
our  little  victory,  all  Florence  was  early  astir. 
Florence  was  ever  a  matutinal  city,  and  her  citizens 
liked  to  be  abroad  betimes  to  get  at  grips  with  their 
work,  which  they  did  well,  and  earn  leisure  for  their 
pleasures,  which  they  enjoyed  as  thoroughly.  But 
on  this  especial  morning  the  town  seemed  to  open 
its  eyes  earlier  than  usual,  and  shake  itself  clear  of 
sleep  more  swiftly,  and  to  bestir  itself  with  an 
activity  unfamiliar  even  to  a  town  of  so  active  a 
character.  The  cause  for  this  unwonted  bustle  was 
not  easy  to  ascertain  with  precision.  Somehow  or 
other  rumors,  vague,  fantastic,  contradictory,  per- 
plexing, irritating,  bewildering,  had  blown  hither 
and  thither  as  it  were  along  the  eaves  and  through 
chinks  of  windows  and  under  doorways,  as  an 
autumn  wind  carries  the  dried  dead  leaves.  These 
were  rumors  of  some  event  of  moment  to  the  Re- 
public that  either  had  happened,  or  was  about  to 
happen,  or  was  happening  at  that  very  instant  of 
266 


MALEOTTI    BEARS   FALSE   WITNESS 

time.  What  this  event  of  moment  might  precisely 
be,  few,  indeed,  could  say,  though  all  could  make 
a  guess  and  all  availed  themselves  of  the  power, 
and  many  and  varied  were  the  guesses  that  men 
made,  and  very  confident  was  every  man  that  his 
particular  guess  was  the  only  right  and  true  one. 
It  is,  indeed,  strange  how  often,  when  some  subtle 
move  of  statecraft  is  being  made  whereof  secrecy 
is  the  very  vital  essence,  though  those  that  be  in 
that  secret  keep  their  lips  truly  sealed,  some  inkling 
of  what  is  going  on  seems  by  some  mysterious  in- 
tuition to  be  given  to  folk  that  have  neither  need  of 
such  knowledge,  nor  right  nor  title  to  it.  So  it 
certainly  proved  in  Florence  on  the  morning  after 
the  ride  against  Arezzo.  Every  man  that  came  out 
into  the  streets — and  the  streets  were  soon  full  of 
people,  as  a  pomegranate  is  full  of  seeds — was  posi- 
tive that  something  had  happened  of  importance, 
or  no  less  positive  that  something  of  importance 
was  going  to  happen,  or  that  something  of  impor- 
tance was  actually  happening.  In  some  occult  man- 
ner it  had  leaked  out  that  a  number  of  the  youths 
of  Florence  were  absent  from  their  dwellings.  It 
gradually  became  known  that  all  those  that  were 
thus  absent  were  members  of  the  same  party,  and 
that  party  the  one  which  was  held  in  no  great  affec- 
tion by  Messer  Simone,  the  party  of  the  Reds. 
Furthermore,  the  story  of  the  formation  of  the 
Company  of  Death  had  become  known,  and  it 

18  267 


THE   GOD    OF    LOVE 

needed  no  very  elaborate  process  of  speculation  to 
assume  that  the  youths  whose  lodgings  lacked  their 
presence  had  overnight,  in  Messer  Folco's  palace, 
inscribed  their  names  in  Messer  Simone's  great 
book  of  enrollment. 

It  being  established,  therefore,  definitely,  beyond 
doubt  or  cavil,  that  something  had  happened,  the 
next  great  question  for  the  expectant  Florentines 
was,  What  thing  had  happened  ?  But  the  answer 
to  this  question  was  not  yet,  and  in  the  meantime 
the  expectant  Florentines  had  another  matter  of 
interest  to  consider  and  to  discuss.  Through  all 
the  noise  and  babble  and  brawling  of  that  agitated 
morning  there  came  a  whisper,  at  first  of  the  very 
faintest,  which  breathed  insidiously  and  with  much 
mystery  a  very  amazing  piece  of  news.  Men  pass- 
ed the  whisper  on  to  men,  women  to  women, 
till  in  a  little  while  it  had  swelled  into  a  voice  as 
loud  as  the  call  of  a  public  crier,  carrying  into  every 
corner  of  the  quarter  where  Messer  Folco  lived, 
and  from  thence  into  every  other  quarter  of  the  city 
its  astonishing  message  of  amazing  wedlock.  Gos- 
sip told  to  gossip,  with  staring  eyes  and  wagging 
fingers,  that  Messer  Folco's  daughter,  Monna  Bea- 
trice, she  that  had  been  the  May-day  queen,  and 
was  so  young  and  fair  to  look  upon,  she  was  to  be 
married  at  nine  of  that  morning  to  Messer  Simone 
dei  Bardi,  the  man  that  so  few  Florentines  loved, 
the  man  that  so  many  Florentines  feared.  It  had, 
268 


MALEOTTI   BEARS   FALSE   WITNESS 

of  course,  long  been  known  in  Florence,  where  the 
affairs  of  any  family  or  individual  are  for  the  most 
part  familiar  to  all  neighbors,  that  Messer  Simone 
wished  to  wed  Monna  Beatrice.  It  was  known, 
too,  that  Messer  Folco  was  in  nowise  opposed  to 
the  match.  Yet,  for  the  sake  of  the  girl's  sweetness 
and  loveliness,  all  were  ready  to  hope  that  such  ill 
nuptials  would  never  come  to  pass.  Thus,  when 
the  news  of  the  immediate  marriage  fluttered 
through  Florence  streets,  it  was  the  cause  of  no 
little  astonishment  to  those  that  first  heard  it,  and 
they  carried  it  on  the  very  edge  of  their  lips  to  the 
nearest  ears,  and  so  made  the  circle  of  astonishment 
greater. 

I  am  proud  to  say  it,  to  the  credit  of  my  fellow- 
citizens,  that  the  greater  part  of  those  that  heard 
the  tidings  shook  their  heads  and  sighed.  And,  in- 
deed, it  needed  no  very  great  niceness  of  feeling  or 
softness  of  heart  to  recognize  that  a  marriage  be- 
tween a  man  like  Messer  Simone  and  a  maid  like 
Monna  Beatrice  was  no  admirable  marriage,  how- 
ever much  the  wish  of  a  parent  was  to  be  respected. 
Every  one  recognized  that  Beatrice  was  a  maid  as 
unusual  in  her  goodness  as  Simone  was  a  man, 
thank  Heaven,  unusual  in  his  badness.  Wherefore, 
all  detested  the  undertaking.  Yet  disbelief  in  the 
story,  a  disbelief  that  was  popular,  had  perforce 
to  change  into  unpopular  belief  when  the  very 
church  was  named  in  which  the  ceremony  was  to 
269 


THE    GOD   OF   LOVE 

take  place — the  Church  of  the  Holy  Name;  and 
those  that  hastened  thither  did  indeed  find  all  prep- 
arations being  made  for  a  wedding,  and  learned 
from  the  sacristan  that  Messer  Simone  did,  indeed, 
upon  that  very  morning,  mean  to  marry  the  daughter 
of  Folco  Portinari.  Yet,  as  I  learned  afterward,  for 
all  these  assurances  and  all  these  preparations,  the 
marriage  was,  up  to  a  certain  moment,  no  such  sure 
a  matter  as  Messer  Simone  wished  and  Messer 
Fo'co  willed  and  the  good-hearted  folk  of  Flor- 
ence regretted. 

I  have  always  accepted  the  customs  of  my  time, 
and  found  them  on  the  whole  excellent,  and  it  has 
ever  been  our  custom  for  us  to  wed  our  daughters 
as  we  will,  and  not  according  to  their  wishes,  our 
view  being  that  elders  are  wiser  than  youngsters, 
and  that  it  is  more  becoming  and  orderly  that  a 
maid  should  marry  to  please  her  father  than  that  she 
should  marry  to  please  herself.  For  there  may  be 
a  thousand  reasons  for  a  certain  marriage,  very 
obvious  to  a  prudent  parent,  such  as  land,  houses, 
plate,  linen,  vineyards,  florins,  and  the  like,  all  of 
which  are  of  the  utmost  importance  in  the  economy 
of  a  well-domesticated  household,  but  are  unhappily 
little  calculated  to  attract  the  dawning  senses  of  a 
nubile  girl.  Yet  in  a  little  while,  when  she  has 
become  a  matron  and  got  used  to  her  husband,  with 
what  a  complacent,  with  what  a  housewifely  ap- 
proving eye  she  will  behold  her  treasures  of  gold 
270 


MALEOTTI    BEARS   FALSE    WITNESS 

and  silver  and  pewter  and  fine  linen  and  the  rest  of 
her  possessions.  So,  for  the  most  part,  it  should 
always  be;  but  there  is  no  rule  that  has  not  its 
exception,  and  if  ever  there  were  a  case  in  which 
a  daughter  might  be  justified  for  resisting  the  will 
of  her  parent  in  the  matter  of  a  marriage,  I  think 
the  case  of  Folco's  daughter  is  the  case,  and  I  for 
one  can  never  be  brought  to  blame  her  in  the 
slightest  degree  for  her  conduct,  or  call  it  mis- 
conduct. 

It  seems  that  when  the  morning  came  Madonna 
Beatrice  showed  herself  unexpectedly  and  un- 
familiarly  opposed,  not  merely  to  her  parent's  wish, 
but  to  her  parent's  commands.  Messer  Folco,  who 
had  not  seen  his  daughter  since  the  previous  night, 
when  she  fell  swooning  in  the  arms  of  Messer 
Tommaso  Severo,  at  first  could  not  believe  in  her 
opposition.  She  told  him,  astonished  as  he  was  at 
this  amazing  mutiny,  that  she  could  not  and  would 
not  wed  Messer  Simone,  because  her  heart  was 
pledged  to  another,  and  that  other  one  whom  she 
would  not  name.  Madonna  Beatrice  kept  silence 
thus  rigorously  the  identity  of  her  lover,  because  of 
her  certainty  that  the  swords  of  her  kinsmen  would 
be  whetted  against  him  the  moment  that  his  name 
was  known.  In  this  she  was  right,  for  Dante  was 
everything  that  the  Portinari  scorned,  being  poor 
with  a  poverty  that  tarnished,  in  their  eyes,  his 
rightful  nobility,  being  of  the  Reds,  being  of  no 
271 


THE   GOD  OF   LOVE 

account  in  the  affairs  of  Florence.  That  he  was  a 
poet  would  no  more  hinder  them  from  killing  him 
than  the  gift  of  song  would  snve  a  nightingale  from 
a  hawk.  Messer  Folco  was  at  first  very  stern  and 
then  very  angry  at  his  daughter's  attitude,  but  he 
was  stern  and  angry  alike  in  vain.  The  more 
Messer  Folco  stormed,  the  less  he  effected.  Though 
Beatrice  seemed  to  grow  paler  and  frailer  at  her 
father's  nagging,  she  grew  none  the  less  stubborn, 
and  Messer  Folco's  fury  flamed  higher  at  her  un- 
wonted obstinacy.  His  naturally  choleric  disposi- 
tion got  the  better  of  his  philosophic  training  and 
his  habitual  self-restraint,  and  he  threatened, 
pleaded,  and  commanded  in  turns  without  making 
any  change  in  Beatrice's  frozen  resistance.  The 
pitiable  struggle  lasted  until  Messer  Maleotti,  hav- 
ing ridden  leisurely  through  the  cool  of  the  morning, 
chose,  when  within  sight  of  Florence,  to  spur  his 
horse  to  a  gallop  and  to  come  tearing  through  the 
gates,  reeling  on  his  saddle,  as  one  that  bore  mighty 
tidings,  which  must  be  delivered  to  Messer  Simone 
dei  Bardi  without  delay. 

What  these  tidings  were  Folco  was  soon  enough 
to  learn.  Messer  Simone  hastened  to  Messer 
Folco's  house  and  demanded  audience  of  the  lady 
Beatrice.  He  found  her  and  her  father  together, 
Messer  Folco  still  fuming,  Madonna  Beatrice  still 
pale  and  resolved.  Simone  stayed  with  a  large 
gesture  Messer  Folco's  protestations  of  regret  at 
272 


MALEOTTI    BEARS    FALSE   WITNESS 

having  so  unmannerly  a  daughter,  and,  addressing 
himself  to  Beatrice,  asked  her  if  it  was  true  that 
her  affection  for  another  stood  in  the  way  of  her 
obedience  to  her  father's  wishes.  She  seemed  to 
be  almost  past  speech  after  the  long  struggle  with 
her  father,  but  she  made  a  sign  with  her  head  to 
show  that  this  was  so.  Thereupon  Simone,  making 
his  voice  as  gentle  and  tender  as  it  was  possible  for 
him  to  make  it,  went  on  to  ask  her  if  by  any  chance 
the  man  she  so  favored  was  young  Messer  Dante  of 
the  Alighieri.  Madonna  Beatrice  would  not  answer 
him  this  question,  either  by  word  or  sign.  Then 
Simone,  allowing  his  voice  to  grow  sad,  as  one  that 
sorrows  for  another's  loss,  assured  her  that  if  that 
were  so,  there  could  be  no  further  obstacle  to  her 
father's  wishes,  because  he  was  at  that  moment  the 
bearer  of  the  bad  news  that  Messer  Dante  and  all 
those  that  were  with  him  had  been  killed  that  morn- 
ing by  treason  in  a  wood  half-way  to  Arezzo.  While 
Messer  Simone  was  telling  this  tale  to  Beatrice,  the 
same  story  was  running  like  fire  through  the  streets 
of  Florence,  for  Messer  Maleotti  was  very  willing 
to  tell  what  had  happened,  or  rather  what  he  thought 
had  happened,  to  whomsoever  cared  to  ask  or  to 
listen,  and  I  take  it  that  there  was  not  a  man  or 
woman  in  all  Florence  who  did  not  seek  to  have 
news  at  first  hand  of  the  disaster. 

It  seems  that  at  this  news  the  unnatural  resist- 
ance of  Madonna  Beatrice  to  her  father's  orders 
273 


THE    GOD   OF   LOVE 

broke  down  entirely.  I  use  the  term  "  unnatural "  as 
one  in  nowise  implying  any  censure  of  Madonna 
Beatrice  for  her  resistance  to  her  father's  wishes,  but 
rather  as  describing  the  strength  beyond  her  nature 
which  she  put  into  that  resistance.  For  I  hold  that 
the  dominion  of  parents  on  the  one  side,  and  the 
obedience  of  children  and  the  deference  of  children 
to  that  dominion  on  the  other  side,  may  be  made 
too  much  of  and  thought  too  much  of,  and  in  no 
case  more  so  than  when  a  controversy  arises  con- 
cerning matters  of  the  heart.  All  this  wisdom  by 
the  way.  If  Madonna  Beatrice  had  been  pale  be- 
fore, she  was  paler  now,  and  for  a  breathing-while 
it  seemed  as  if  she  would  swoon,  but  she  did  not 
swoon.  They  sent  for  her  physician,  Messer  Tom- 
masso  Severo,  who  could  do  nothing,  and  said  as 
much.  Madonna  Beatrice,  he  declared,  was  very 
weak;  it  were  well  not  to  distress  her  overmuch. 
Beyond  that  he  said  little,  partly  because  he  was 
naturally  enough  in  agreement  with  Messer  Folco 
in  his  views  as  to  the  rule  of  parents  over  children, 
and  partly  because  he  was  aware  how  frail  a  spirit 
of  life  was  housed  in  her  sweet  body,  and  knew  that 
no  art  of  his  or  of  any  man's  was  cf  avail  to  strength- 
en it  or  to  hinder  its  departure  when  the  time 
must  be. 

While  all  this  was  toward,  Madonna  Beatrice 
seemed  to  come  out  of  the  silent  fit  into  which  the 
false  news  of  Dante's  death  had  cast  her,  and  when 
274 


MALEOTTI    BEARS    FALSE   WITNESS 

her  father  asked  her  again,  something  less  sternly 
than  before,  but  still  peremptorily,  if  she  would 
have  Messer  Simone  for  mate,  she  did  no  more  than 
incline  her  head  in  what  Messer  Folco  took  to  be 
a  signal  of  submission  to  his  will.  At  this  yielding 
he,  being  by  nature  an  authoritarian,  seemed  not  a 
little  pleased.  For  the  death  of  Dante,  and  the 
effect  that  death  might  have  upon  his  daughter's 
welfare,  he  did  not  care  and  did  not  profess  to  care 
in  the  least.  Dante  as  a  human  being  was  nothing 
to  him — nothing  more,  at  least,  than  a  young  man 
who  belonged  to  an  opposite  party,  had  no  money 
or  family  backing,  and  owed  what  little  esteem 
he  had  gained  in  the  public  mind  to  his  writing 
some  clever  verses  and  making  a  mystery  about 
their  authorship,  the  said  verses  being  particu- 
larly offensive  to  him,  Folco  Portinari,  because 
they  had  the  insolence  to  be  aimed  at  his  daugh- 
ter. So  having  carried  his  point  and  enforced 
his  authority,  Messer  Folco  straightway  sent  a 
messenger  to  the  church  chosen  for  the  cere- 
mony to  have  all  in  readiness  for  the  immediate 
nuptials. 

As  for  Beatrice,  though  she  still  seemed  like  a 
woman  that  was  stricken  with  a  catalepsy,  she  was, 
by  her  father's  orders,  girded  in  a  white  gown  and 
girdled  and  garlanded  with  white  roses,  and  in 
such  guise  Messer  Folco  and  Messer  Simone  be- 
tween them — with  my  curse  on  them  for  a  fool  and 
275 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

a  knave — led  their  helpless  victim  from  the  Porti- 
nari  house  into  the  open  air.  There  a  litter 
awaited  her,  into  which  she  went  unresisting,  and 
so  with  the  people  of  her  father's  household  about 
her,  wearing  her  father's  crest  upon  their  coats, 
she  went  her  way  to  the  Church  of  the  Holy 
Name. 

I  do  not  think  that  in  all  the  tragic  tales  of  old 
time  there  is  one  more  lamentable  than  this  of 
lady  Beatrice.  Monna  Iphigenia,  so  piteously 
butchered  in  Aulis,  that  the  Greek  kings  might  have 
a  soldier's  wind  toward  Troy,  was  not  more  sadly 
sacrificed,  and  in  the  case  of  Beatrice,  as  in  that 
of  the  Greek  damsel,  a  father  was  a  consenting 
party  to  the  crime.  The  case  of  Jephthah's  daugh- 
ter was  less  pathetic,  for  there  at  least  the  parent  was 
deeply  afflicted  by  the  darts  of  destiny,  whereas  old 
Agamemnon  and  our  Folco  were,  whatever  their 
reluctance  to  dedicate  their  daughters  to  an  un- 
comfortable fate,  quite  prepared  to  do  so.  All  of 
which  goes  to  show  that  humanity  is  the  same  to- 
day as  it  was  yesterday,  and  will,  in  all  likelihood, 
be  the  same  to-morrow.  There  will  always  be 
good  and  bad,  kind  and  unkind,  wise  and  foolish, 
always  sweet  lovers  will  be  singing  their  songs  in 
the  praise  of  their  sweethearts  that  are  walking  in 
the  rose-gardens,  and  sour  parents  will  be  scowling 
from  the  windows.  For  my  own  part,  I  am  always 
on  the  side  of  any  lover,  young  or  old,  straight  or 
276 


MALEOTTI   BEARS   FALSE   WITNESS 

crooked,  gentle  or  simple,  for  to  my  mind,  in  this 
muddle  of  a  world,  the  state  of  being  in  love  is  at 
least  a  definite  state,  and,  whenever  and  however 
gratified,  a  pleasant  state. 

I  can  honestly  say,  in  looking  back  over  the  book 
of  my  memory,  that  I  can  find  no  page  therein  which 
is  not  overwritten  with  the  name  of  some  pretty  girl. 
And  though  I  will  not  be  such  a  coxcomb  as  to 
assert  that  I  was  always  favored  by  any  fair  upon 
whom  it  might  please  me  to  cast  an  approving  eye, 
yet  I  must  needs  admit  that  I  found  a  great  deal  of 
favor.  This  I  attribute  largely  to  a  merry  disposi- 
tion and  a  ready  desire  to  please,  together  with  a 
very  genial  indifference  if,  by  any  chance,  the  maid 
should  prove  disdainful.  For  it  may  be  taken  as 
a  general  principle  that  maids  are  the  less  tempted 
to  be  disdainful  if  they  guess — and  they  are  shrewd 
guessers — that  their  disdain  will  be  met  with  a 
blithe  carelessness.  Speaking  of  carelessness  and 
disdain  and  the  like,  reminds  me  that  I  have  never 
done  what  I  meant  to  from  the  beginning,  and  tell 
you  how  I  fared  in  my  love-affair  with  Brigitta,  the 
girl  that  gave  me  the  cuff  and  had  such  strange 
eyes.  But  I  fear  now  that  I  am  too  deeply  em- 
barked upon  the  love-affairs  of  another  to  have  the 
leisure  to  digress  into  my  own  adventures.  The 
world  is  more  interested  in  love's  tragedies  than  in 
the  comedies  of  love,  wherein  I  have  ever  played 
my  part,  and  so  I  will  go  back  to  my  Dante  and 
277 


THE   GOD   OF    LOVE 

his  sad  affairs,  and  leave  my  little  love-tale  for 
another  occasion.  But  at  least  I  may  be  suffered 
to  set  down  this  much  in  passing — that  Brigitta 
was  a  very  attractive  girl,  and  that  I  was  really 
very  fond  of  her. 


XXII 

THE   RETURN   OF  THE   REDS 

THE  Church  of  the  Holy  Name  was  filled  as 
full  as  it  could  hold,  and  those  outside  were 
grumbling  at  their  hard  case  in  being  cut  off  from 
so  much  solemnity  or  jollification,  according  to 
their  opinion  of  the  ceremony  inside.  But  it  came 
to  pass  that  the  lot  of  these  outsiders  proved,  from 
the  point  of  view  of  those  that  like  to  assist,  if  only 
as  spectators,  at  the  making  of  history,  to  be  more 
fortunate  than  that  of  those  who  had  gained  ad- 
mittance to  the  church.  For  suddenly,  from  far 
away,  there  came  a  shouting,  meaningless  at  first, 
but  momentarily  growing  in  meaning,  till  at  last 
men  shrieked  into  their  neighbors'  ears  that  the 
supposed  lost  and  slaughtered  of  the  youth  of 
Florence  were  not  lost  nor  slaughtered  at  all,  but 
were  alive  and  well,  and  were  riding  in  triumph 
through  the  city  gates,  having  inflicted  innumerable 
woes  upon  the  devils  of  Arezzo. 

Such  tidings  were  unbelievable,  were  not  to  be 
believed,  were  not  believed,  were  believed — all  in 
the  winking  of  an  eyelid.  The  insolent  chivalry  of  the 
2/9 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

Company  of  Death  were,  as  it  seemed,  all,  or  almost 
all,  to  hand  with  Messer  Guido  Cavalcanti  at  their 
head.  With  them  came  the  news  that  the  Aretines 
had  been  beaten  in  battle,  and  that  the  ever  illus- 
trious condottiere,  Griffb  of  the  Claw,  was  flying 
his  Dragon -flag  in  the  very  face  of  the  scared 
burghers  of  Arezzo,  huddled  behind  their  naughty 
walls.  Here  was  a  mighty  change  in  the  fortunes 
of  Florence,  its  full  significance  understood  by  few 
then,  and  not  by  many  until  long  after  that  day. 

At  first  the  news  seemed  incredible  to  those  that 
had  not  ocular  proof  of  its  verity,  but  these  soon 
were  convinced.  Was  not  Messer  Guido  Caval- 
canti riding  through  the  city  gates,  whither  all  were 
now  running,  and  was  not  Messer  Dante  by  his 
side,  and  your  humble  servant  who  writes  these 
lines,  and  many  another  youth  well  known  to  the 
Florentine  populace  ?  So  that,  in  a  little  while,  the 
space  before  the  church,  that  had  been  so  thickly 
crowded,  was  as  empty  as  my  palm,  and  Messer 
Guido  and  his  fellowship  of  the  Company  of  Death 
were  like  to  be  unhorsed  and  swallowed  up  in  a 
wave  of  popular  enthusiasm.  Messer  Guido  re- 
strained the  kindly  intentions  of  the  crowd  with 
some  difficulty,  and  thereafter  harangued  them  at 
some  length,  and  with  eloquence  worthy  of  a  Roman 
patrician  of  old  days.  He  told  them  how  the  fort- 
unes of  Florence  were  again,  as  ever  before,  trium- 
phant, how  the  devils  of  Arezzo  had  been  taught 
280 


THE    RETURN    OF   THE    REDS 

a  lesson  they  would  not  be  likely  to  forget  in  a 
hurry,  and,  furthermore,  how  much  Florence  owed 
to  the  splendid  assistance  given  to  her  arms  by 
Messer  Griffb  of  the  Dragon -flag  and  his  Free 
Companions. 

Now,  at  every  pause  in  Messer  Guide's  speech, 
the  air  was  shattered  with  deafening  huzzas,  some 
echo  of  which  would,  one  must  surely  think,  find 
its  way  into  that  solemn  and  sombre  church  where 
the  fairest  lady  in  Florence  was  being  given  to 
Florence's  greatest  knave.  How  great  a  knave 
none  of  us  realized  at  that  moment,  for  we,  of 
course,  were  ignorant  of  the  intention  of  Messer 
Simone  with  regard  to  us,  and  the  narrow  escape 
we  had  from  being  annihilated  by  those  very  Free 
Companions  whose  praises  Messer  Guido  was  so 
generously  voicing.  Even  while  Guido  was  speak- 
ing, those  of  us  behind  and  about  him  heard  many 
things  hurriedly  from  the  citizens  that  pressed 
against  us.  One  of  them  was  the  news  of  our  own 
supposed  slaughter  at  the  hands  of  the  people  of 
Arezzo,  and  the  other — more  terrible,  indeed,  to 
one  of  us — was  that  on  that  very  instant  Madonna 
Beatrice  was  being  wedded  to  Simone  dei  Bardi 
in  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Name. 

It  was  just  when  Messer  Guido  had  made  an 

end  of  speaking  that  the  ill  news  came  to  Dante's 

ears,  and  when  he  heard  it  he  gave  a  great  cry  and 

urged  his  horse  forward  through  the  throng,  crying 

281 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

to  the  people  in  a  terrible  voice  to  let  him  pass,  and 
there  was  something  in  his  set  face  and  angry 
eyes,  and  in  the  manner  of  his  command,  which 
made  the  people  yield  to  them,  and  so  he  rode  his 
way,  slowly,  indeed,  because  of  the  press,  but  as 
quickly  as  he  could,  and  still  calling,  like  one  pos- 
sessed, for  free  passage.  When  Guido  knew  what 
had  happened,  for  the  tale  was  soon  told  to  him, 
he  foresaw  what  trouble  might  come  to  pass,  and 
he  resolved  to  stand  by  Dante  and  lend  him  a  hand 
in  case  of  need.  So  he  called  upon  his  friends  to 
keep  with  him,  and  we  all  followed  hard  upon 
Dante's  heels,  and,  as  rapidly  as  was  possible  for 
the  crush  in  the  streets,  we  made  our  way  to  the 
open  space  in  front  of  the  church,  the  open  space 
that  now  lay  so  vacant  under  the  noontide  sun. 
There  Messer  Dante  flung  himself  from  his  horse 
and  made  to  run  at  full  speed  toward  the  church 
door,  and  we,  too,  dismounting  hurriedly,  made 
after  him,  for  we  feared  greatly  what  he  might  do 
or  say  in  his  anger,  even  within  the  precincts  of  the 
sacred  place.  Messer  Guido,  though  I  fear  he  had 
no  great  regard  for  the  sanctity  of  such  shrines  and 
temples,  made  haste  to  restrain  him,  for  he  knew 
very  well  how  it  would  hurt  his  friend  in  the  eyes 
of  devout  Florentines  if  he  were  to  cause  any 
scandal  in  a  church. 

But  before  Dante  could  reach  the  blessed  house 
its  great  doors  yawned  open,  and  many  of  those 
282 


THE   RETURN   OF   THE    REDS 

that  were  inside  came  tumbling  out  and  down  the 
steps  to  form  a  hedge  on  either  side,  and  through 
the  human  lane  thus  made  the  wedding  party 
came  out  into  the  fierce  sunlight.  They  stood  for  a 
moment  on  the  threshold,  very  plain  for  all  to  see. 
Messer  Simone  showed  very  large  and  gorgeous, 
shining  in  some  golden  stuff  like  the  gilded  image 
of  a  giant,  his  great  face  flushed  with  triumph. 
Hard  by  him  stood  Messer  Folco,  looking  very 
anxious  and  haughty  and  stern,  grimly  conscious, 
I  suppose,  that  he  had  played  the  Roman  father 
very  properly,  and  yet,  as  I  take  it,  not  without  some 
tragic  aches  and  pinches  at  his  heart  for  the  con- 
sequences of  his  deed.  Between  him  and  Simone 
stood  his  doomed  daughter,  Beatrice,  resting  a  lit- 
tle on  the  arm  of  her  physician,  Messer  Tommaso 
Severo,  and  pale  with  such  a  paleness  as  I  never 
yet  saw  upon  the  face  of  a  woman,  living  or  dead. 
It  was,  as  who  should  say,  a  kind  of  frozen  paleness, 
the  pallor  of  a  marble  statue,  the  outward  sign  of  a 
sorrow  so  great  that  time  could  never  soften  its 
sting.  Behind  these  three  stood  the  friends  and 
kinsfolk  of  Simone  and  the  friends  and  kinsfolk  of 
Messer  Folco,  and  made  a  brave  background  for 
the  tragedy.  So,  for  a  moment,  the  three  stood  look- 
ing straight  into  the  square  before  them,  and  then 
it  was  plain  that  they  suddenly  became  conscious 
of  untoward  events,  and  Messer  Simone  forgot  his 
triumph,  and  Messer  Folco  his  pride,  and  Madonna 
'»  283 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

Beatrice  her  misery,  when  they  saw  Dante  stand- 
ing all  armored  in  front  of  them,  and  behind  him 
the  triumphant  faces  of  the  Company  of  Death. 
Then  Madonna  Beatrice  gave  a  great  cry  and  ran 
quickly  forward  to  Dante,  and  Dante  caught  her 
in  his  arms. 

"They  told  me  you  were  dead,"  she  sobbed,  and 
then  lay  very  quiet  in  his  embrace,  whispering  to 
him  what  had  been  related  to  her. 

Messer  Simone  gave  a  great  bellow  of  rage,  and 
bent  his  head  like  an  angry  bull,  and  he  wrenched 
his  sword  from  the  hand  of  the  serving-man  that 
carried  it,  and  plucked  its  blade  from  its  house. 
Very  plainly  he  must  have  seen  that  his  damnable 
plan  had  miscarried,  and  that  in  some  unfathom- 
able manner  the  men  he  had  devoted  to  destruction, 
and  of  all  these  men  most  notably  Dante,  had 
escaped  the  fate  he  had  arranged  for  them.  Messer 
Dante,  still  holding  Beatrice  in  his  arms,  had  his 
sword  drawn,  and  stood  very  steadfastly  awaiting 
Simone's  onslaught,  looking,  as  it  seemed  to  me, 
like  some  young  saint  from  a  Book  of  Hours  abiding 
the  attack  of  some  pagan  monster.  But  before 
Simone  could  move,  Messer  Guido  and  the  rest  of 
us  had  swarmed  up  beside  and  about  Dante,  and 
all  our  victorious  swords  were  bare,  and  we  seemed 
a  menacing  body  enough  to  any  that  chose  to  oppose 
us.  So  those  of  Messer  Simone's  friends  immedi- 
ately about  him  flung  themselves  upon  him,  per- 
284 


THE    RETURN    OF   THE    REDS 

suading  him  by  words  and  restraining  him  with 
difficulty  by  force,  for  he  dragged  them  hither  and 
thither,  clinging  to  him  as  a  wounded  bear  plays 
with  a  huddle  of  dogs. 

Then  Messer  Folco,  very  gray  in  the  face  and 
stately  of  bearing,  advanced  in  front  of  Messer 
Simone,  where  he  struggled  with  his  friends,  and 
addressed  us.  "Sirs,"  he  said,  gravely,  "what  has 
come  to  the  city  of  Florence,  so  famous  for  its  de- 
corum and  its  dignity,  when  the  marriage  of  one 
of  her  citizens  is  thus  rudely  interrupted  by  roysterers 
in  arms  ?" 


XXIII 

THE    PEACE    OF   THE    CITY 

WHILE  Messer  Folco  spoke,  he  did  not  look 
at  Messer  Dante  at  all,  but  seemed  to  address 
himself  solely  to  Messer  Guido,  as  being  the  man 
of  most  standing  present  among  his  antagonists, 
and  he  began  to  reprove  Messer  Guido  very  sharp- 
ly for  such  brawling  and  riotous  conduct.  But 
Messer  Guido  answered  him  very  plainly  and 
courteously  that  he  was  there  present  merely  as  a 
friend  of  his  friend,  and  that  it  was  for  Messer 
Dante  and  not  for  him  to  speak  as  to  the  reasons 
for  what  he  had  done. 

Then  Dante  cried  out  in  a  loud  voice  to  those 
about  him,  saying:  "Oh,  Florentines,  I  am  here  to 
demand  justice  of  the  Republic!  For  this  lady  and 
I  were  troth-pledged,  and  she  has  only  been  per- 
suaded to  marry  my  enemy  through  a  lying  tale 
of  my  death." 

At  these  words  of  Dante's,  the  clamor  and  tu- 
mult that  had  lulled  for  a  moment  broke  out 
afresh,  every  man  striving  to  say  his  say  at  the 
same  time,  with  the  result  that  no  man  was  any- 
386 


THE   PEACE    OF   THE   CITY 

wise  audible  in  the  great  din  that  followed.  It 
seemed  likely  that  Florence  would  see  again  enacted 
one  of  those  bloody  public  feuds  such  as  had  not  now, 
for  some  time,  desolated  her  hearths  and  distracted 
her  streets.  People  were  beginning  to  divide  on 
this  unexpected  quarrel  and  take  this  side  or  that, 
as  their  fancy  or  their  allegiance  might  lead  them, 
and  I  think  that  the  most  part  of  the  public  took 
sides  with  Dante,  partly  because  he  was  young  and 
a  lover,  and  partly  because  he  was  one  of  the  victors 
in  the  fight  against  the  Aretines,  and  fresh  from 
the  field  of  triumph,  and  partly,  too,  out  of  a  very 
general  dislike  to  Messer  Simone.  But  Simone  had 
plenty  of  followers  too,  that  were  very  ready  to 
draw  sword  and  to  strike  for  him,  and  Messer  Folco 
Portinari  had  his  friends  and  his  kinsfolk,  who 
shared  his  indignation  at  the  wrong  which,  as  they 
conceived,  was  thus  publicly  put  upon  him. 

The  object  of  Messer  Folco's  friends  was  to  take 
away  Beatrice  from  Dante,  by  whose  side  she  now 
stood,  very  pale  and  calm  and  determined.  The 
object  of  Messer  Simone  was  now,  if  by  any  means 
he  could  compass  it,  to  kill  Dante  where  he  stood, 
and  as  many  of  his  friends  as  were  with  him,  and 
so  get  rid  of  this  troublesome  young  opponent  once 
for  all.  Therefore,  many  swords  were  raised  in  the 
air,  and  many  voices  screamed  old  war-cries  that 
had  not  vexed  the  winds  of  Florence  for  long 
enough,  and  enemy  taunted  enemy,  and  antagonist 
287 


THE    GOD    OF    LOVE 

challenged  antagonist,  and  it  needed  but  a  little 
thing  to  set  fire  to  the  torch  of  civic  war.  But  be- 
fore any  sword  could  strike  against  another,  and 
before  those  zealous  champions  of  peace,  that  were 
running  as  fast  as  they  could  to  the  Signory  to  sum- 
mon the  city  authorities  to  intervene  and  stay  strife, 
could  gain  their  end,  there  came  an  unexpected  in- 
terruption to  the  threatened  conflict. 

It  was  Beatrice  herself  who  held  back  the  hostile 
forces  and  stayed  the  lifted  swords.  She  moved 
from  her  place  by  the  side  of  her  lover  and  stood  a 
little  ways  apart  from  him,  at  about  an  equal  dis- 
tance between  him  and  her  father,  and  she  raised 
her  voice  to  speak  to  the  people  of  her  city;  and 
those  about  her,  seeing  what  she  meant  to  do,  were 
instantly  silent,  and  the  silence  spread  over  all  the 
assembled  crowd;  and  when  Beatrice  spoke  she 
was  heard  by  all  who  were  present.  It  was  a  rare 
and  a  strange  thing  for  a  Florentine  woman  thus 
to  address  a  turbulent  assemblage  of  citizens  that 
seemed  bent  on  immediate  battle.  Yet  the  lady 
Beatrice  spoke  to  all  those  fierce  and  eager  people 
as  sweetly  and  as  quietly  as  if  she  had  been  wel- 
coming her  father's  guests  in  her  father's  house. 
What  she  said  was  to  the  effect  that  she  entreated 
all  those  that  were  about  her  to  have  patience,  even 
as  she  would  have  patience.  She  further  said  that 
a  great  wrong  had  been  done  to  her,  for  it  was  in- 
deed true  that  she  had  plighted  her  troth  to  Messer 
288 


THE    PEACE   OF   THE   CITY 

Dante  there  present,  though  this  had  been  done  in 
secret,  for  which  secrecy  she  now  asked  her  father's 
forgiveness,  but  that  when  her  father  desired  her 
to  marry  Messer  Simone,  she  had  refused  to  wed 
another  than  the  man  she  loved,  whatever  might 
come  of  it.  Then  she  said  she  had  been  told  of 
Dante's  death,  and  had  no  further  strength  left  in 
her  to  disobey  her  father's  wishes,  seeing  that  if 
her  lover  were  indeed  dead,  she  had  no  care  for 
what  might  become  of  her.  Now  she  appealed  to 
her  father  and  to  the  people  of  her  city  to  take  her 
strange  and  sad  case  into  their  hands,  and  to  pro- 
tect her  until  it  was  made  plain  that  she  had  been 
wrought  upon  by  fraud  and  cunning,  and  forced 
by  false  representations  into  a  marriage  that  should 
never  have  taken  place  and  should  now  be  annulled. 
All  the  people  marvelled  to  hear  her  speak  so 
calmly  and  so  wisely,  and  the  most  part  of  them 
applauded  her  when  she  had  done  speaking,  and 
Messer  Folco,  for  all  his  anger  and  his  wounded 
pride,  was  touched  by  her  words,  and  extended  his 
hand  to  her,  and  she  came  to  him  and  stood  by 
his  side.  But  Messer  Simone  and  Messer  Simone's 
people  would  have  none  of  the  proposal,  and 
shouted  loudly  against  it,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the 
brawl  were  likely  to  begin  again  on  the  instant, 
and  I  am  very  sure  it  would  have  done  so  had  it 
not  been  for  the  arrival  of  the  Priors  of  the  city 
with  an  armed  following.  These  kept  the  two 


THE   GOD   OF    LOVE 

opposing  parties  asunder,  and  the  Captain  of  the 
People  of  the  city  demanded  to  know  the  meaning 
of  what  had  happened,  and  Messer  Guido  Caval- 
canti  began  to  tell  him  the  tale. 

Now,  while  he  did  so,  and  while  all  were  listening 
to  him  in  silence,  Messer  Dante,  who  was  standing 
very  still  and  stern,  with  his  hands  resting  upon  the 
hilt  of  his  sword,  felt  that  one  plucked  him  by  the 
garment,  and,  turning,  found  that  a  woman  stood  at 
his  side  with  a  hood  drawn  closely  over  her  face. 
This  woman  told  him,  in  a  low  voice  that  seemed 
to  him  familiar,  that  if  he  was  alive  in  that  hour  it 
was  no  thanks  to  Messer  Simone,  who  had  sold  him 
to  Griffo,  and  had,  as  he  believed,  sent  him  and  his 
companions  to  a  certain  and  treacherous  death, 
and  that  he  would  have  perished  if  Messer  Griffo 
had  not  been  persuaded  to  play  an  honorable  part 
and  be  faithful  to  the  city  of  Florence.  When  the 
woman  had  done  speaking  she  slipped  away  from 
Dante  and  disappeared  into  the  crowd,  and  Dante, 
with  that  strange  story  humming  in  his  brain, 
waited  with  little  patience  till  Messer  Guido  had 
finished  saying  his  say  to  the  listening  authorities. 
Then  he  sprang  forward  toward  the  Captain  of  the 
People,  declaring,  in  a  loud  voice,  that  Messer 
Simone  was  a  traitor  to  the  city,  inasmuch  as  to 
gratify  a  private  hate,  he  had  sent  him  and  his  fel- 
lows to  perish  in  an  ambuscade. 

Now  at  these  words,  of  course,  the  brawling  was 
290 


THE   PEACE    OF   THE   CITY 

renewed  a  thousandfold  worse  than  before,  every 
man  screaming  at  the  top  of  his  voice  and  gesticulat- 
ing, as  if  in  the  hope  that  pantomime  might  succeed 
in  conveying  his  opinions  where  words  indeed  must 
fail  in  the  hubbub.  Under  cover  of  the  clamor, 
men  of  the  Red  party  and  men  of  the  Yellow 
party  challenged  one  another  to  the  arbitrament  of 
steel,  and  what  with  the  shouting  and  counter- 
shouting  and  the  clatter  of  weapons,  and  the  stamp- 
ing of  many  feet  on  the  cobbles,  there  was  such  a 
din  set  up  as  seemed  to  some  of  us,  in  our  bewilder- 
ment, likely  to  last  forever.  Words  would  speedily 
have  become  blows  and  blows  brought  blood,  and 
all  the  place  become  a  battle-field  very  presently, 
if  it  had  not  been  for  the  presence  of  the  Captain 
of  the  People  and  the  Priors  of  the  city,  whose  dig- 
nity indeed  counted  for  nothing  to  allay  the  tumult, 
but  whose  strong  escort  of  armed  men  served  the 
turn  better  by  keeping  the  would-be  combatants 
apart,  that  were  so  lusting  to  be  upon  one  another. 
After  a  while,  for  want  of  a  better  settlement,  this 
composition  was  agreed  upon,  or,  rather,  was  de- 
cided upon  by  the  Priors,  that  were  enabled  to  en- 
force their  authority  by  their  showing  of  armed 
force. 

What  they  did  was  to  put  the  Peace  of  Florence, 

as  the  custom  was  in  those  days,  upon  the  belligerent 

disputants.     According  to  this  custom,  each  of  the 

parties  to  any  quarrel  that  threatened  to  become 

291 


THE    GOD   OF   LOVE 

such  a  public  brawl  as  might  cause  disturbance  to 
the  state  was  called  upon  to  clasp  the  hand  of  the 
Captain  of  the  People,  and  swear  to  keep  the  Peace 
of  the  City.  If  he  did  this,  he  was  suffered  to  go  to  his 
own  house,  where  for  a  while,  as  I  think,  authority 
kept  a  wary  eye  upon  him.  If  he  would  not  do 
this,  then  the  Captain  of  the  People  had  the  right 
to  clap  him  into  prison  and  keep  him  there  till 
he  was  of  a  more  reasonable  and  pacific  mood 
of  mind.  All  of  which  serves  to  show  how  ex- 
cellent were  our  laws  and  customs,  and  how  in- 
telligently and  discriminatingly  they  were  admin- 
istered. 

Well,  our  Captain  and  Priors  put  the  Peace  of 
the  City  upon  Messer  Simone  dei  Bardi,  that  was 
on  one  side  of  the  quarrel,  and  on  Messer  Dante 
dei  Alighieri,  that  was  on  the  other  side  of  the 
quarrel.  Messer  Simone  took  the  peace  because 
he  could  not  very  well  help  doing  so  at  that  time 
and  in  that  place,  being,  as  it  were,  in  a  tight  corner. 
He  was  outnumbered  for  the  moment;  the  feeling 
of  the  fickle  public  was  against  him,  taken,  as  it 
naturally  was  and  rightly  was,  by  the  love-tale 
and  Dante's  youth  and  daring,  and  Beatrice's 
beauty  and  her  sadness  and  her  courage.  So,  with 
a  sour  smile  enough,  the  bull-faced  fellow  flung  out 
his  right  hand  to  the  Captain  of  the  People  and  gave 
the  clasp  of  peace,  and  then  drew  back  a  little,  very 
sullen  and  scowling,  yet  for  the  nonce  tame  enough. 
292 


THE    PEACE   OF   THE   CITY 

Then  Dante  in  his  turn  came  forward  to  give  and 
take  the  pressure  of  peace,  and  all  we  that  looked 
upon  him  and  loved  him,  Messer  Guido  and  I  and 
others  of  our  age  and  company,  thought  that  we 
had  never  beheld  him  show  more  noble.  His  spirit, 
that  had  been  tempered  in  conflict,  gave  an  elder's 
dignity  to  his  youth;  his  anger  had  set  him  in  a 
splendid  sternness,  while  his  love  had  invested  him 
with  the  raiment  of  a  no  less  splendid  serenity.  It 
was  a  brave  and  chivalrous  soldier  that  stood  there 
in  the  sight  of  all  Florence,  a  figure  infinitely  better 
to  my  eyes  than  the  scholar  who  dogged  the  foot- 
steps of  Brunette  Latini,  or  even  than  the  poet 
whose  songs  had  enchanted  the  city.  For  a  scholar 
is  often  a  thing  of  naught,  and  a  poet,  as  I  know, 
may  be  little  enough,  but  our  Dante,  as  he  stood 
there  and  gave  the  pledge  of  peace,  was  indeed  a 
man. 

So  it  was  for  the  time  arranged  and  settled. 
Madonna  Beatrice,  she  that  was  a  wife  and  yet  no 
wife,  went  with  her  father  to  her  father's  house, 
there  to  abide  until  such  time  as  a  decision  might  be 
come  to  as  to  her  case.  Messer  Simone,  in  high 
dudgeon,  withdrew  to  his  dwelling-place  with  his 
friends  about  him.  As  for  Messer  Dante,  he  was 
for  going  to  his  lodging,  very  lonely  and  stern  and 
silent,  but  I  would  not  have  it  so.  For  I  could 
guess,  being,  after  all,  no  fool,  how  bad  it  might  be 
for  one  of  so  sensitive  a  disposition  as  my  friend 
293 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

to  fret  his  spirit  in  isolation.  So  I  persuaded 
him — and  indeed  I  think  in  the  end  he  was  not 
sorry  to  be  so  persuaded — to  take  up  his  quarters 
with  me. 

Mine  were  merry  rooms  in  a  merry  house  of  a 
merry  neighborhood,  and  therein  I  installed  him, 
and  did  my  best  to  cheer  him,  and  in  the  end  per- 
suaded him  to  talk  a  little,  but  not  much.  For  he 
was  one  of  those  that  will  spin  out  the  secret  of  his 
heart  in  rhymes  for  all  the  world  to  read,  but  is 
inclined  to  be  sullenly  mumchance  if  invited  to 
open  his  bosom  to  a  sympathetic  listener.  But  any- 
ways I  sang  to  him;  I  had  a  mellow  voice  in  those 
days,  and  even  now,  though  I  ought  not  to  say  it, 
Brother  Lappentarius  is  as  good  as  another,  and 
perhaps  better,  when  it  comes  to  chanting  a  hymn. 
I  pressed  food  and  wine  upon  him,  of  which,  how- 
ever, he  would  taste  but  little,  for  the  which  lack  of 
good-fellowship  I  was  obliged  to  make  amends  my- 
self, that  was  ever  a  good  trencherman,  by  eating 
and  drinking  for  the  pair  of  us.  Which  I  did,  as  I 
am  pleased  to  believe,  very  honestly  and  thorough- 
ly. But  I  think,  on  the  whole,  I  was  glad,  as  I  sat 
and  watched  him  sitting  there  by  my  hearth,  with 
the  brooding  look  on  his  face  that  was  already  so 
eagle-like,  that  my  love-affairs  had  not  conducted 
me  to  such  great  stresses  of  the  soul.  I  had  en- 
joyed myself  very  much.  I  was,  as  I  am  pleased  to 
record,  to  enjoy  myself  even  more  in  the  years  that 
294 


THE   PEACE   OF   THE   CITY 

followed.  But  my  pastimes  had  never  cost  me, 
and  never  did  cost  me,  an  hour's  sleep  for  any  cares 
that  they  brought  me,  and  I  never  had  to  strive  with 
the  great  ones  of  the  earth  for  the  smiles  of  any 
she.  While  here  was  my  Dante,  very  unhappy,  in 
a  position  of  great  danger,  menaced  by  mighty 
enemies,  threatened  by  an  infinity  of  perils,  and  all 
for  a  woman.  "All  for  the  woman!"  he  would  have 
answered  me,  rebuking  me,  if  I  had  been  so  un- 
wise as  to  set  my  views  of  life  and  love  before  him 
on  that  day. 

I  was  not  so  unwise.  I  merely  babbled  and 
chanted  to  divert  him  from  his  distress,  and  was 
careful  to  keep  my  thoughts  to  myself.  In  my 
heart  I  wondered  how  it  was  all  to  end  for  him, 
that  was  so  young  and  so  little  rich,  pitted  against 
such  powerful  interests.  At  least  I  could  read  in 
his  face,  and  in  those  lines  which  destiny  was 
already  tracing  with  iron  pencil  on  his  spring- 
time's flesh,  that  he  would  face  his  dangers  and  his 
difficulties  with  a  dauntless  spirit,  and  that  no 
enemy  or  bunch  of  enemies  would  ever  get  the 
better  of  that  so  long  as  it  still  held  a  lodging 
within  the  carnal  house.  If  I  was  glad,  on  the 
whole,  that  I  was  not  in  Messer  Dante's  shoes,  I 
may  say  very  truly  that  I  did  not  think  any  the 
better  of  myself  then,  and  do  not  think  any  the 
better  of  myself  now,  for  being  so  glad.  But  it  is 
well  to  know  one's  own  boundaries,  and  I  knew 
295 


THE    GOD    OF   LOVE 

very  well  that  I  was  never  made  for  Dante's  loves 
or  Dante's  hates  or  Dante's  adventures  on  life's 
highway.  Well,  if  there  must  be  knights-errant, 
there  must  also  be  more  easy-going,  flower-picking 
pilgrims  in  the  pageant  of  life. 


XXIV 

BREAKING   THE    PEACE 

NOW,  of  course,  it  is  one  thing  to  put  the  Peace 
of  the  City  upon  a  man,  and  another  thing  to 
make  him  abide  by  his  peaceful  promise.  Messer 
Simone  had  put  his  pledge,  with  his  palm  and 
fingers,  into  the  hand  of  the  Captain  of  the  People, 
but  he  had  done  so  because  at  the  given  instant  he 
could  not  very  well  see  that  there  was  anything  else 
for  him  to  do  —  as,  indeed,  there  was  not.  But 
Simone  was  never  a  man  to  give  undue  weight  to 
the  words  or  forms  of  a  foolish  ceremony  if  the 
ceremonial  stood  in  the  way  of  anything  he  wished 
to  accomplish  and  saw  the  chance  of  accomplish- 
ing. Therefore,  Messer  Simone  did  not  intend  to 
keep  the  Peace  of  the  City  a  moment  longer  than 
was  convenient  for  him.  But  before  deciding  to 
break  it  he  had  other  things  to  do  which  he  set 
about  doing  with  all  possible  dispatch. 

In  the  first  place,  he  was  very  wild  to  know  how 

he  had  been  baffled  and  bubbled  in  the  business  of 

the  Aretine  expedition,  and  who  had  played  him 

false    in    that    matter.     Interrogation    of  Maleotti 

297 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

made  it  plain  to  him  that  Maleotti  had  acted  in 
good  faith  if  Maleotti  had  acted  foolishly.  He  had 
been  confident,  and,  as  Simone  could  not  but  admit, 
reasonably  confident,  that  when  he  saw  the  little 
fellowship  of  the  Company  of  Death  ride  into  the 
wood  with  Griffo's  lances  about  them  and  Griffo's 
Dragon-flag  above  them,  that  they  would  never 
emerge  alive  from  the  wood,  but  would  leave  their 
bones  to  whiten  amid  its  leaves.  Why,  then,  had 
Messer  Griffo  been  untrue  to  his  promise  ?  Simone 
could  not  admit  that  any  arguments  or  promises  of 
his  intended  victims  would  have  had  power  to  stay 
his  lifted  sword,  for  there  was  no  one  in  all  their 
number  who  could  pay  down  the  money  that  Simone 
could  pay  down;  and  as  to  argument,  Griffo  of  the 
Dragon-flag  was  too  busy  a  man  to  bother  about 
other  people's  arguments.  Yet  Griffo  left  the 
Company  of  Death  a  misnomer,  as  far  as  he  was 
concerned.  Griffo  had  let  the  Reds  ride  onward 
to  Arezzo  and  back  to  Florence,  very  much  to 
Simone's  annoyance  and  discomfiture.  What,  then, 
was  the  cause  of  Griffo's  defalcation,  and  who  had 
inspired  him  to  this  signal  piece  of  treachery  ? 

Simone  shrewdly  suspected  Madonna  Vittoria  to 
be  at  the  back  of  the  matter,  a  suspicion  that  was 
plentifully  fed  by  Maleotti,  who  was  eager  enough 
to  get  his  patron's  angry  thoughts  directed  against 
any  other  than  himself.  Luckily,  however,  for 
Madonna  Vittoria,  she  very  shrewdly  suspected 
298 


BREAKING   THE    PEACE 

that  Simone  would  shrewdly  suspect  her,  and  she 
laid  her  plans  accordingly.  After  she  had  whis- 
pered into  Dante's  ear,  in  the  square  before  the 
Church  of  the  Holy  Name,  the  secret  of  Simone's 
treason,  she  decided  that  it  might  be  as  well  for 
her  to  change  the  air  of  Florence  for  one  which 
she  could  breathe  in  greater  security.  Simone  of 
the  Bardi,  never  a  pleasant  man  in  his  best  moods, 
would  be  very  far  indeed  from  proving  a  pleasant 
man  to  any  crosser  of  his  purpose,  even  if  that 
crosser  were  a  woman  as  fair  as  Monna  Vittoria. 
The  woman's  imagination  could  feel  the  grip  of 
Simone's  fingers  about  her  throat,  and  she  shivered 
at  the  thought  in  the  warm  air.  She  could  see 
Simone's  eyes  glaring  wolfishly  down  upon  her, 
and  she  lowered  her  own  lids  at  the  fancied  sight 
and  shuddered.  When  she  had  a  little  shaken  off 
the  effects  of  this  most  disagreeable  vision,  she 
took  her  precautions  to  prevent  its  becoming  a 
reality. 

When,  therefore,  Simone  came  in  a  rage  to  Vit- 
toria's  villa  with  a  tale  of  his  trustiest  ruffians  at 
his  heels,  he  found  no  Madonna  Vittoria  waiting  to 
receive  him,  to  be  questioned,  to  be  forced  to  con- 
fess, to  be  punished.  Far  away  on  the  highroad 
toward  Arezzo  a  youth  was  riding  furiously,  a 
comely  youth  that  seemed  not  a  little  plump  in  his 
clothes  of  golden  brocade,  a  youth  with  a  scarlet 
cap  on  a  crown  of  dark  hair,  a  youth  that  kept  a 

3°  299 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

splendid  horse  galloping  at  full  speed  toward 
Messer  Griffo's  encampment  outside  Arezzo.  If 
Messer  Simone  could  have  known  of  that  riding 
figure  he  would  have  been  even  angrier  than  he 
was.  All  he  did  know  was  that  Monna  Vittoria 
was  nowhere  within  the  liberties  of  her  villa,  and 
as  he  realized  this  fact  he  stood  for  a  while  closing 
and  unclosing  the  fingers  of  his  great  hands  with 
an  expression  on  his  face  that  would  have  made 
Vittoria  sick  could  she  but  see  it. 

Though  his  business  with  Monna  Vittoria  was 
thus,  and  thus  far,  proved  a  failure,  Simone  had 
another  matter  to  attend  to  which  yielded  a  more 
successful  issue.  Messer  Simone  wished  to  ascer- 
tain how  far  his  standing  in  the  city  had  been  in- 
jured by  recent  events,  and  how  far  he  might  count 
on  the  support  of  those  that  had  always  hitherto 
been  reckoned  as  his  freinds.  As  to  the  first  horn 
of  the  dilemma,  he  really  felt  little  anxiety.  There 
was  never  a  man  of  all  the  men  in  the  party  of  the 
Yellows  that  could  be  found  to  utter  disapproving 
word  of  a  plan  that  had  promised  to  annihilate  at 
a  single  stroke  the  majority  of  those  that  were  most 
important  among  their  opponents.  Some  few, 
indeed,  might  be  inclined,  on  general  patriotic 
grounds,  to  protest  against  a  course  of  action  which 
slaughtered  one's  private  foes-1— however  commend- 
able the  slaughter  might  be  under  ordinary  cir- 
cumstances— while  engaged  in  military  operations 
300 


BREAKING   THE    PEACE 

against  an  enemy  of  the  city,  and  under  the  very 
eyes,  as  it  were,  of  that  enemy.  But  here  Messer 
Simone  had  his  comfortable  answer  in  reserve.  The 
very  wiping  out  of  his  private  enemies  was  to  be  an 
important  factor  in  the  later  wiping  out  of  the  public 
enemy.  Was  not  Arezzo,  deceived  by  this  action  of 
private  justice,  to  take  Messer  Griffo  to  her  arms, 
only  to  find  that  she  had  cuddled  a  cockatrice  ? 
Up  to  this  point  Messer  Simone  felt  fairly  sure  of 
himself  and  of  his  ground. 

He  received  no  goring  from  the  second  horn — 
nay,  not  so  much  as  a  prick  to  break  the  skin.  His 
friends  were  as  plentiful,  his  friends  were  as  zealous 
as  ever,  as  ready  to  serve  Messer  Simone  with  en- 
thusiasm so  long  as  Messer  Simone  had  the 
millions  of  his  kinsmen  and  the  bank  behind  him. 
Simone  made  sure,  and  very  sure,  that  a  very  re- 
spectable army  would  rise  behind  him  if  he  chose 
to  cry  his  war-cry,  and  season  that  utterance  with 
the  relish  of  the  added  words,  "Death  to  the  Reds!" 
— words  that  were  always  in  Simone's  heart,  and 
would  now,  as  he  believed,  be  very  soon  upon  his 
lips,  to  the  discomfiture  of  his  adversaries.  In  a 
word,  Messer  Simone  was  ripe,  and  overripe,  for  a 
breach  of  the  peace,  and  could  barely  be  persuaded 
to  wait  for  opportunity  and  a  pretext.  He  did 
wait,  however,  and  he  soon  got  both. 

With  the  next  morning  there  came  one  to  my 
abode  asking  to  have  speech  with  me,  and  when 
301 


THE    GOD   OF   LOVE 

I  went  to  see  who  it  was  I  found  that  my  visitor 
was  none  other  than  Messer  Tommaso  Severo,  that 
was  so  long  physician  to  the  Portinari  family.  He 
told  me  that  he  heard  that  Messer  Dante  was  for 
the  time  dwelling  with  me  as  my  guest,  and  when 
I  told  him  that  this  was  so  he  went  on  that  he  had 
come  the  bearer  of  a  message  to  my  friend,  asking 
him  to  come  very  instantly  to  the  Portinari  palace. 
When  I  showed  some  surprise  at  this,  Messer  Tom- 
maso Severo  told  me  that  Madonna  Beatrice  de- 
sired most  earnestly  to  speak  with  Dante,  and  that 
her  father  had  consented  to  this  out  of  his  great 
love  for  his  child,  which  seemed  suddenly  to  have 
grown  stronger  in  the  midst  of  all  these  ill-happen- 
ings. He  further  told  me  that  Messer  Folco  had 
long  been  bound  to  Simone  because  of  large  sums 
that  ruffian  had  lent  him  from  time  to  time  for  the 
building  of  his  hospitals  and  the  like,  which  had 
swallowed  up  the  mass  of  Messer  Folco's  own  fort- 
une. Not  that  Messer  Simone  cared  for  any  such 
good  works,  but  because,  by  doing  as  he  did,  he 
laid  Messer  Folco  under  heavier  obligations  to  him. 
Now,  however,  according  to  Messer  Tommaso, 
Folco  saw  more  clearly  the  character  of  the  man 
that  he  had  made  his  son-in-law,  and  also  the  char- 
acter of  his  own  daughter  that  he  had  never  under- 
stood till  now,  and  he  was  now  resolved  to  repay 
Messer  Simone  all  he  owed  him  if  he  sold  every- 
thing he  possessed  to  do  so,  and  thereafter  use  all 
302 


BREAKING   THE   PEACE 

his  credit  among  his  friends  at  Rome,  and  he  had 
many  there,  to  get  the  marriage  annulled  by  the 
Holy  See.  Then  I  went  and  summoned  Dante, 
and  he  came  out  and  greeted  Messer  Tommaso 
and  went  away  with  him,  going  like  one  that  moves 
in  the  grave  joy  of  some  fair  dream. 

Now  what  chanced  to  Dante  when  he  went  his 
ways  to  the  Portinari  palace  I  shall  set  down  pres- 
ently as  it  has  come  to  me,  seeing  that  I  was  not 
present,  but  giving,  as  I  believe,  the  substance  and 
the  truth.  But  when  he  and  Messer  Tommaso  had 
left  me,  I  thought  to  myself  that  I  would  busy  my 
leisure  with  writing  a  sonnet  or  so  to  some  merry 
jills  of  my  acquaintance.  But  when  I  had  got  me 
ink  and  parchment,  I  found,  to  my  surprise,  that  I 
was  in  no  fit  mood  for  wooing  the  muses,  and  that 
the  rhymes  that  were  wont  to  be  so  ready  to  jig  to 
my  whistle  were  now  most  fretfully  rebellious,  and 
would  not  come,  for  all  my  application.  So  there  I 
sat  and  stared  at  the  unstained  whiteness  of  my 
sheets  and  grumbled  at  the  sluggishness  of  my  spirit, 
and  presently  I  applied  myself  pretty  briskly  to  the 
wine-flask,  in  the  hope  of  quickening  my  spirits. 
But  the  wine  proved  as  hostile  to  my  rhyming  as 
the  muses  had  been,  and  after  a  little  while,  when  I 
had  drunk  a  toast  to  some  half  a  dozen  sweetnesses 
that  were  then  very  dear  to  me,  what  must  I  do  but 
fall  into  the  depths  of  a  very  profound  sleep. 

How  long  I  lay  in  that  lethargy  I  do  not  know; 
303 


THE   GOD    OF    LOVE 

only  I  remember  dreaming  incoherent  and  distorted 
dreams,  because,  after  all,  a  chair  is  no  proper  place 
in  which  to  seek  slumber.  I  thought  I  was  wander- 
ing in  a  wood  where  satyrs  grinned  at  me  and 
nymphs  eluded  me,  and  where  I  was  mightily  vexed 
at  my  ill  fortune.  Then  suddenly  all  the  trees  be- 
gan to  talk  at  the  tops  of  their  voices,  and  though 
it  did  not  surprise  me  in  the  least  that  trees  could 
talk,  yet  it  annoyed  me  that  I  could  not  hear  what 
they  said,  because  of  their  all  talking  together, 
and  in  my  indignation  I  awoke  to  find  that  the 
trees  were  still  talking  as  it  seemed,  and  that  the 
sound  of  their  voices  filled  the  chamber  where  I 
sat  uncomfortably  enough,  staring  about  me  with 
drowsy  eyes.  All  of  a  sudden  I  realized  that  the 
noises  I  heard  were  the  voices  of  no  trees,  but  the 
clamor  of  human  voices  in  the  streets  outside,  and 
that  they  swelled  to  a  great  roar  of  menace  and 
alarm  and  anger. 

You  may  believe  that  I  was  up  and  awake  in  a 
twinkling,  and  that  I  caught  up  my  sword  as  a  wise 
citizen  does  when  there  is  brawling  abroad  in  the 
streets  of  Florence,  and  in  less  time  than  I  take  to 
tell  it  I  was  out  of  my  house  and  in  the  open,  look- 
ing eagerly  about  me.  The  street  was  all  full  of 
people  running  and  shouting  as  they  ran,  and  man 
caught  at  man  as  they  ran  and  asked  questions  and 
was  answered,  and  I  heard  the  name  of  Simone  dei 
Bardi  and  of  the  Portinari  palace,  and  that  was 
304 


BREAKING   THE    PEACE 

enough  for  me.  If  I  had  borne  wings  on  my  heels, 
like  Hermes  of  old,  or  carried  a  pair  on  each  shoul- 
der, like  Zetes  and  Calais  of  pagan  memory,  I  could 
scarcely  have  sped  swifter  than  I  did  along  the 
streets  of  Florence,  threading  my  way  with  amazing 
dexterity  through  the  throng  that  hurried,  like  me, 
in  the  same  direction.  In  a  few  wild  minutes  I 
found  myself  in  the  Place  of  the  Holy  Felicity, 
which  was  now  no  other  than  a  camping-ground 
for  two  opposing  forces  under  arms.  As  I  began 
to  realize  what  these  opposing  forces  were,  I  also 
realized  that  the  time  of  the  day  was  long  past 
noon,  and  that  I  must  have  slept  my  heavy,  dream- 
disturbed  sleep  for  some  hours  that  were  eventful 
hours  to  many  that  were  familiar  to  me. 

Let  me  try  and  present  a  picture  of  what  I  saw 
that  afternoon  in  the  Place  of  the  Holy  Felicity. 
In  front  of  the  house  of  Messer  Folco  Portinari, 
that  seemed  to  me  more  grim  and  solemn  than  ever 
that  day,  were  ranged  a  number  of  the  soldiers  of 
the  authorities  of  the  city,  that  had  evidently  been 
set  there  to  protect  Messer  Folco's  house  from  at- 
tack, and  that  were  far  too  few  for  the  purpose, 
considering  who  was  the  assailant  and  what  his 
powers  of  aggression.  For  the  assailant  was  Messer 
Simone  dei  Bardi,  that  strode  a  big  horse  and  was 
girt  with  a  big  sword,  and  looked  for  all  the  world 
like  the  painted  giant  of  a  puppet  play.  Behind 
Messer  Simone  was  massed  a  mighty  following, 
305 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

that  took  up  much  of  the  space  in  the  square  and 
flowed  off  into  the  other  streets  adjacent,  which  his 
men  held,  that  no  assistance  might  be  sent  to  the 
soldiers  of  the  authorities.  It  was  not  these  soldiers, 
indeed,  that  stayed  Messer  Simone  from  his  pur- 
pose of  forcing  an  entrance  to  the  Portinari  palace, 
but  the  presence  of  other  elements  in  the  struggle 
that  was  to  be  striven  that  day. 

One  of  these  elements  was  represented,  to  my 
wonder  and  delight,  by  my  dear  Dante,  who  stood 
on  the  steps  of  the  Portinari  palace  with  a  great 
sword  in  his  hand.  So  standing,  he  looked  like  some 
guardian  angel  of  the  place,  appointed  to  protect 
it  from  desecration.  His  face  was  very  calm,  and 
he  kept  his  gaze  ever  fixed  most  steadily  upon 
Simone  of  the  Bardi,  and  he  seemed  eager  for  the 
conflict  that  must  surely  be.  Below  him  were 
gathered  many  of  his  friends,  many  of  the  Reds, 
many  of  the  fellowship  of  the  Company  of  Death, 
that  had  fought  and  beaten  the  Aretines  but  yester- 
day, and  among  these,  of  course,  and  of  course  in 
the  foremost  place,  was  Messer  Guido  Cavalcanti. 
But  though  the  friends  of  Dante  were  many,  they 
were  but  few  in  comparison  with  the  numbers  that 
were  led  by  Simone  dei  Bardi,  and  Simone  could 
have  swept  his  enemies  away  from  the  threshold 
of  the  Portinari  palace  were  it  not  for  the  existence 
of  a  further  element  in  the  struggle.  That  element 
was  represented  by  a  multitude  of  armed  men  on 
306 


BREAKING   THE   PEACE 

horseback  that  were  ranged  in  front  of  the  palace 
in  manifest  antagonism  to  Messer  Simone  and  his 
supporters.  Over  the  helms  of  these  horsemen 
floated  the  Dragon-flag  that  I  now  knew  so  well, 
and  at  their  head,  mounted  on  a  great  gray  horse 
that  he  held  well  reined  in,  Messer  Griffb  of  the 
Claw,  that  made  a  fine  opposition  to  Messer  Simone, 
both  in  bulk  and  bearing. 

By  the  side  of  Messer  GrifFo,  on  a  high  bay,  rode 
one  that  at  the  first  glance  I  took  for  a  youth,  and 
that  at  the  second  glance  I  knew  for  Madonna 
Vittoria  in  the  habit  of  a  youth.  It  became  her 
plumpness  very  lovingly,  and,  indeed,  she  looked 
very  well  with  a  scarlet  cap  set  atop  of  her  twisted- 
up  tresses  and  her  eyes  all  fire  with  excitement. 
She  kept  very  close  to  Messer  Griffb's  side,  and 
looked  at  him  every  now  and  then  as  if  she  loved 
him,  which,  as  I  gathered  thereafter,  was  exactly 
what  she  did.  It  seems  that  well-nigh  from  the 
first  the  big  Englishman  won  her  demi-Roman, 
semi-Grecian  heart,  and  that  while  he  was  so  smit- 
ten with  her  as  to  do  her  will  in  that  business  of 
Arezzo  and  Messer  Simone,  she,  on  her  side,  was 
so  won  by  his  willingness  and  his  bulk  and  his 
blunt  love-making,  that  she  cared  no  longer  for 
the  winning  of  that  wicked  old  wager,  and  had  but 
one  thought  in  her  head,  which  was  to  become  the 
lawful  wife  of  Messer  GrifFo  of  the  Claw.  This 
was  an  arrangement  of  their  joint  affairs  which 
307 


THE    GOD    OF   LOVE 

Messer  Griffo   of  the  Claw  was   very  willing   to 
make. 

I  did  not  know  all  this  as  I  stood  there  in  the 
Place  of  the  Holy  Felicity,  though  I  could  guess  at 
a  good  deal  of  it,  for  the  tale  of  Griffo's  love  for 
Vittoria  and  of  Vittoria's  love  for  Griffo  was 
written  in  the  largest  and  plainest  hand  of  write. 
But  I  could  not  guess  the  causes  that  had  brought 
Messer  Simone  and  Messer  Griffo  thus  face  to  face 
before  Messer  Folco's  house,  in  all  this  pomp  and 
armament  of  battle.  But  I  had  plenty  of  friends 
in  the  crowd  to  question,  and  by  the  time  that  I 
had  elbowed  my  way  to  the  edge  nearest  to  the  an- 
tagonists— aiding  my  advance  by  loud  proclama- 
tions that  I  was  one  of  the  Company  of  Death,  a 
statement  that  insured  me  help  and  respect  in  my 
advance — I  had  learned  all  that  it  was  necessary 
for  me  to  know  in  order  to  understand  the  bellicose 
state  of  affairs.  You  shall  understand  them  in 
your  turn,  but  in  the  first  place  it  is  necessary  for 
me  to  tell  what  had  happened  in  those  hours  when 
I  was  snoring,  and  had  led  to  the  facing  of  those 
two  armed  forces  in  the  Place  of  the  Holy  Felicity 
and  in  front  of  Messer  Fclco's  home. 


XXV 

MEETING   AND   PARTING 

r"VANTE,  when  he  left  me,  accompanied  Messer 
I—/  Tommaso  Severe  to  the  house  of  Folco  Porti- 
nari.  He  was  very  silent  on  the  way,  thinking 
troubled  thoughts,  but  Messer  Tommaso  Severo 
talked,  telling  him  many  things  to  which  he  listened 
heedfully  in  spite  of  his  cares.  Messer  Tommaso 
Severo  told  him  that  Messer  Folco  had  greatly 
changed  in  his  bearing  toward  his  daughter,  the 
which,  indeed,  he  had  already  told  me,  and  that 
he  seemed  to  understand,  as  it  were,  for  the  first 
time,  how  precious  a  life  hers  was,  and  how  lovely 
and  how  fragile.  Severo  believed  that  Messer 
Folco  would  now  be  willing,  if  only  he  could  liberate 
his  child  from  the  weight  of  the  Bardi  name,  to 
leave  her  all  liberty  of  choice  as  to  the  man  she 
would  wed,  even  if  that  man  had  neither  wealth  nor 
fame  to  back  him.  Such  changes  of  mood,  the 
physician  averred,  were  not  uncommon  in  men  of 
Messer  Folco's  temperament,  who  are  led  by  pride 
and  vanity  and  many  selfish  motives  into  some  evil 
course  without  rightly  appreciating  the  fulness  of 
3°9 


THE   GOD  OF   LOVE 

the  evil.  But  when,  by  some  strange  chance,  their 
eyes  are  cleansed  to  see  the  folly  or  the  wickedness 
of  their  conduct,  the  native  goodness  in  them  as- 
serts itself  very  violently,  to  the  complete  overthrow 
and  banishment  of  the  old  disposition,  and  they  are 
straightway  as  steadfast  in  the  good  extreme  as  of 
old  they  had  been  stubborn  in  the  bad. 

But  what  Messer  Severe  most  spoke  of  was  the 
strange  delicacy  of  the  physical  nature  and  com- 
position of  Beatrice.  Never,  he  declared,  in  all  his 
long  experience  as  a  physician,  had  he  met  with 
any  case  like  to  hers.  Although  she  seemed  to  the 
beholder  to  carry  the  colors  of  health  in  her  cheeks 
and  the  form  of  health  on  her  body,  he  asserted  that 
she  was  of  so  ethereal  a  creation  that  the  vital 
essence  was  barely  housed  by  its  tenement  of  flesh, 
and  could,  as  he  fancied,  set  itself  free  from  its 
trammels  with  well-nigh  unearthly  ease.  All  of 
which  he  dwelt  upon,  because,  being  a  man  of 
science,  it  interested  him  mightily,  and  though  he 
loved  the  girl  dearly,  it  did  not  enter  his  wise  head 
that  what  he  said  must  cause  a  pang  to  the  youth 
by  his  side,  the  youth  who  also  loved  her.  But 
Dante  made  no  sign  that  he  heeded  him  to  his  hurt, 
but  marched  on  doggedly,  with  a  grim  determina- 
tion on  a  face  that  had  aged  much  in  a  few  days. 

Florence  was  quiet  enough  as  they  trudged  along 
through  the  streets  that  had  been  so  crowded,  so 
uproarious,  yesterday.  We  soon  settle  down  again 
310 


MEETING   AND    PARTING 

after  one  of  our  little  upheavals,  and  whether  the 
event  has  been  Guelph  killing  Ghibelline,  or  Yellow 
hounding  Red,  or  Black  baying  at  White,  the  next 
morning  sees  the  sensible  Florentines  going  about 
their  affairs  as  composedly  as  if  nothing  ever  had 
happened,  or,  indeed,  ever  could  happen,  out  of  the 
common.  So  when  the  pair  came  to  the  Portinari 
palace,  the  Piazza,  of  the  Santa  Felicita  was  well- 
nigh  as  desolate  as  the  desert.  Dante  glanced,  you 
may  be  very  sure,  at  that  painted  image  of  the 
God  of  Love  that  ruled  above  the  fountain  by  the 
bridge,  and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  statue  gave 
him  a  melancholy  glance.  Yet  Dante  was  going  to 
see  his  beloved,  and  he  could  not  be  downcast. 

When  the  two  were  under  the  shadow  of  the 
Portinari  palace,  Messer  Tommaso  Severe  ceased 
talking,  and  going  to  the  little  door,  knocked  thrice 
upon  it,  whereupon  the  warder  within,  after  peep- 
ing for  a  moment  through  a  grill,  opened  it  and 
admitted  the  doctor  and  his  companion.  In  silence 
Severe  conducted  Dante  through  the  silent  corridors 
of  the  great  house,  which  seemed  strangely  quiet  in 
its  contrast  to  the  gayety  on  the  night  when  Dante 
last  beheld  it.  The  pair  met  no  one  in  their  prog- 
ress through  the  palace.  Severo  informed  Dante 
that  Folco  was  within,  but  keeping  his  rooms  in 
much  gloom  because  of  all  that  had  occurred,  and 
the  physician  made  no  offer  to  bring  Dante  to  his 
presence.  After  a  time  Severo  came  to  a  halt  be- 
3" 


THE    GOD    OF   LOVE 

fore  a  certain  door,  on  which  he  knocked  again 
three  times,  as  before.  One  of  Beatrice's  women 
answered  his  summons,  and  after  a  moment's  whis- 
pered colloquy  the  girl  withdrew.  An  instant  later 
Severo  pushed  Dante  into  the  room,  and  Dante 
found  himself  in  the  presence  of  Beatrice. 

As  Dante  entered  the  room,  Beatrice  rose  from 
the  couch  and  advanced  toward  him  with  extended 
hands.  "You  are  welcome,  friend,"  she  said. 

Dante  looked  upon  her  paleness,  and  trembled 
and  hardly  knew  what  to  say.  "My  lady,  my  dear 
lady — "  he  began,  and  paused  and  looked  at  her 
wistfully. 

Beatrice  smiled  sadly  at  him.  "Our  loves  have 
fallen  upon  evil  days,  Messer  Dante,"  she  said. 
"  It  is  but  a  few  poor  hours  ago  since  we  changed 
vows,  and  here  am  I  wedded  to  your  enemy, 
wedded  to  my  enemy.  Dear  God,  it  is  hard  to 
bear!"  For  a  moment  she  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands,  as  if  her  sorrow  was  too  great  for  her. 

Dante's  heart  seemed  to  burn  with  a  fierce  flame. 
"It  shall  not  be  borne,  Madonna!"  he  cried.  "I 
have  hands  and  a  heart  and  a  brain  as  good  as 
Simone's.  I  would  rather  play  the  knave  and 
stab  him  in  the  back  than  have  him  live  to  be  your 
lord.  But  there  is  no  need  of  stabbing  or  idle  talk 
of  stabbing.  This  false  wedlock  shall  be  broken 
like  a  false  ring." 

Beatrice  chilled  the  hope  of  his  mind  with  a 
312 


MEETING   AND   PARTING 

look  of  despair.  "  I  do  not  know,"  she  sighed,  "  I 
do  not  know.  My  father  will  do  all  he  can.  My 
father  is  a  changed  man  in  these  hours.  He  weeps 
when  he  sees  me,  poor  soul.  But  it  is  not  sure 
we  can  break  the  marriage,  after  all." 

"The  Pope  can  break  the  marriage,"  Dante 
said. 

Beatrice  shook  her  head.  "The  Pope  can  do 
what  he  will,  but  he  may  not  choose  to  tamper 
with  a  sacrament  for  the  sake  of  two  young  lovers. 
It  is  all  the  world  and  its  sober  governance  against 
two  young  lovers.  It  is  all  my  fault,  Dante." 

Dante  interrupted  her  with  a  groan.  "Oh,  my 
love — "  he  said,  and  said  no  more,  for  her  look 
stayed  him. 

The  girl  went  on,  sadly:  "If  I  had  not  yielded 
when  I  thought  you  dead,  yielded  in  obedience, 
yielded  in  despair,  we  should  be  free  now,  you  and 
I,  to  change  many  sweet  thoughts  into  sweet  words. 
But  we  are  not  so  free,  and  it  may  be  that  we  never 
shall  be  so  free." 

Dante  compelled  himself  to  speak  bravely,  com- 
bating her  alarms.  "Dearest,  have  no  fear,  have 
no  doubt.  Why,  I  will  fight  this  Simone.  Never 
smile  at  my  slightness.  All  these  weeks  I  have 
labored  to  make  myself  master  of  my  sword,  and 
I  have  mastered  it.  I  tested  my  courage  and  my 
skill  yesterday.  Of  my  courage  it  is  not  fitting  for 
me  to  speak,  but  my  skill  is  a  thing  outside  myself 


THE   GOD   OF    LOVE 

that  I  may  speak  of,  and  I  found  it  sufficient.  I 
will  fight  Simone,  I  will  kill  Simone,  you  will  be 
free." 

Beatrice  sighed.  "Are  we  right  to  talk  so  lightly 
of  life  and  death,  you  and  I  ?  Are  we  not  wasting 
time  ?  I  sent  for  you  to  tell  you  that  if  I  can 
never  be  yours,  I  will  never  be  another's.  I  have 
no  right  to  kill  my  body,  that  I  know,  but  neither 
have  I  the  right  to  kill  my  soul;  and  of  the  two  sins 
I  will  choose  the  lesser,  and  sooner  kill  myself  than 
lie  in  loveless  arms.  I  gave  myself  to  you,  my  lover, 
that  night,  when  we  changed  vows  in  the  moonlight. 
I  will  kiss  no  other  man's  lips,  I  will  share  no 
other  man's  bed.  I  am  your  wife  by  the  laws  of 
God,  and  I  will  die  before  I  dishonor  my  bridal." 

Dante  took  her  hand  and  held  it  in  his.  "Oh, 
if  Heaven  could  grant  me  a  thousand  hearts  to 
house  my  love  in  and  a  thousand  tongues  to  give 
my  love  utterance,  I  should  still  seem  like  a  child 
stammering  over  its  alphabet  when  I  tried  to  tell 
how  I  love  you.  All  about  me  I  seem  to  hear  the 
swell  of  mighty  voices  that  thunder  what  my  lips 
are  too  weak  to  whisper,  yet  what  they  say  is  only 
as  if  a  chorus  of  angels  cried  aloud  what  I  say  be- 
neath rny  breath,  the  three  words  that  mean  every- 
thing— I  love  you!" 

Before  the  warmth  and  passion  of  his  words  a 
faint  color  kindled  in  the  girl's  cheeks  as  she  gave 
him  back  assurance  for  assurance. 
3H 


MEETING   AND    PARTING 

"I  love  you,  Dante,  as  you  love  me,  and  if,  on 
this  earth,  we  should  never  meet  again,  my  love 
would  remain  unchangeable  with  the  changing  days. 
If  I  that  am  now  young  live  to  be  old,  I  shall  think, 
with  death  before  me  and  Heaven  behind  the 
wings  of  death,  that  my  withered  body  in  the  Holy 
Field  shall  quicken  into  the  fragrance  of  spring 
flowers  because  of  the  cleanness  and  the  sweetness 
of  my  faith.  My  love  shall  keep  the  spirit  of  the 
girl  that  was  Beatrice  fresh  and  blithe  for  the  boy 
that  was  Dante  when  they  meet  again  in  Heaven 
beyond  the  frontier  of  the  stars." 

Her  voice  seemed  to  fail  a  little  as  she  spoke, 
but  she  held  herself  erect,  as  if  her  unconquerable 
purpose  lent  her  the  strength  she  lacked.  Dante 
stood  before  her,  silent,  in  a  kind  of  awe.  His 
passion  for  the  girl  had  always  been  so  chastened 
by  reverence,  his  desires  so  girdled  about  by  mys- 
tical emotions,  that  it  seemed  to  him  in  that  mem- 
orable hour  as  if  he  and  she  were  rather  the  priest 
and  priestess  of  some  fair  and  ancient  faith  than 
man  and  woman  that  were  lover  and  lover.  His 
great  love  seemed  to  burn  about  him  like  a  fierce 
white  flame  consuming  all  that  was  evil,  all  that 
was  animal,  in  his  corporeal  being,  and  leaving 
nothing  after  its  fiery  caress  but  a  body  so  purified 
as  to  be  scarcely  distinguishable  from  pure  spirit. 
So  Dante  felt,  enchanted,  gazing  in  adoration  upon 
Beatrice,  and  reading  in  the  rapture  of  her  an- 
3*5 


THE   GOD    OF    LOVE 

swering  eyes  the  same  splendid,  terrible  exalta- 
tion. 

The  spell  lasted  for  an  age-long  while,  and  then 
Beatrice  broke  it,  turning  away  from  her  lover's 
gaze,  and  as  she  did  so  Dante,  lowering  his  eyes, 
saw  how  upon  a  table  near  the  girl  there  stood  a 
little  silver  casket,  richly  wrought  with  images  of 
saints,  and  the  lid  of  the  casket  was  lifted,  and  in 
the  casket  Dante  saw  that  there  lay  a  single  red 
rose,  or,  rather,  that  which  had  once  been  a  red  rose, 
but  now  lay  withered  and  faded,  the  mummy  of 
its  loveliness.  Dante  looked  at  it  in  some  wonder, 
and  Beatrice  followed  his  gaze  and  saw  what  he 
saw,  and  turned  to  him,  smiling. 

"Forgive  me,  friend,"  she  said,  "if  in  the  joy  of 
seeing  you  I  forgot  to  thank  you  for  your  gift." 

And  Dante  looked  from  the  rose  to  her  and  from 
her  to  the  rose,  and  his  wonder  grew,  and  he  said, 
quickly,  "I  sent  you  no  gift." 

Then  Beatrice  gazed  at  him  in  surprise  and  told 
him.  "One  left  this  casket  here  for  me  this  morn- 
ing, a  little  while  ago,  shortly  after  I  had  sent  for 
you,  saying  that  it  came  from  him  whose  name 
would  be  revealed  by  the  treasure  it  contained. 
When  I  opened  it  I  saw  this  rose,  and  I  made  sure 
it  came  from  you,  for  I  thought,  'This  is  the  rose 
that  I  gave  him,  and  he  sends  it  to  me  in  sign  of 
greeting  and  of  faith.'  " 

Dante  shook  his  head,  and  he  put  his  hand  to 
316 


MEETING   AND   PARTING 

his  bosom  and  drew  forth  a  small  piece  of  crimson, 
colored  silk  and  unfolded  it,  and  within  the  silk 
there  lay  a  withered  red  rose,  and  he  showed  it  to 
Madonna  Beatrice,  holding  it  on  his  extended  hand. 

"This  is  the  rose  you  gave  me,  Madonna,"  he 
said.  "Ever  since  that  day  it  has  lived  next  to  my 
heart."  And  as  he  spoke  his  wonder  seemed 
growing  into  fear,  and  he  looked  again  at  the  casket 
and  the  rose  that  it  held. 

"What,  then,  is  this  rose  ?"  Beatrice  asked.  "And 
who  sent  it?" 

Dante  folded  hiS  own  rose  away  in  its  coverlet  of 
silk,  and  put  it  back  into  his  bosom.  He  shook  his 
head.  He  was  still  full  of  wonder,  the  wonder  that 
was  growing  into  fear.  Before  he  could  put  his 
troubled  thoughts  into  words  there  came  a  hurried 
knocking  at  the  door,  and  Messer  Tommaso  Severo 
entered,  looking  anxious  and  alarmed. 

"I  fear  there  is  some  new  trouble  moving,"  he 
said;  "there  is  one  come  to  your  father  with  grave 
tidings,  for  Messer  Folco's  face  was  troubled;  but 
I  know  not  what  the  tidings  are." 

Dante  paid  no  heed  to  the  old  man's  words.  He 
took  the  mysterious  rose  from  the  casket,  and  held 
it  toward  Severo.  "Here,"  he  said,  "is  a  token 
that  was  sent  to  Madonna  Beatrice  this  morning; 
do  you  know  anything  of  it  ?" 

Severo  shook  his  head.  "I  know  nothing  of  it," 
he  said.  "Who  should  send  Madonna  Beatrice  a 
317 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

withered  rose  ?"  He  lifted  it  for  a  moment  to  his 
nostrils.  "For  all  it  is  withered,"  he  said,  "it  has 
a  strange  scent,  a  strong  scent."  He  looked  at  the 
girl  anxiously.  "Have  you  smelled  it?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Beatrice,  "I  have  smelled  it,  and 
I  have  kissed  it,  for  I  thought  it  came  from 
Dante." 

The  old  man  muttered  to  himself,  examining  the 
flower  and  peering  curiously  into  its  petals.  He 
seemed  as  if  he  would  have  spoken  again,  but  was 
interrupted  ere  he  could  do  so  by  the  entrance  of 
Messer  Folco  looking  very  wrathful  and  stern. 
Folco  showed  no  surprise  at  Dante's  presence,  and 
saluted  him  with  grave  courtesy.  Before  Messer 
Folco  could  speak,  Severo  slipped  from  the  room. 

Folco  spoke.  "Beatrice,"  he  said,  "here  is  bad 
news.  Messer  Simone  of  the  Bardi  is  coming 
hither  at  the  head  of  an  armed  following  to  claim 
you  and  take  you." 

Beatrice  said  nothing  in  reply  to  these  words. 
She  only  clasped  her  hands  against  her  heart  and 
looked  wistfully  at  her  lover. 

Dante  spoke.  "Surely  this  cannot  be,  Messer 
Folco,  seeing  that  the  Peace  of  the  City  was  put 
upon  him,  as  upon  me,  yesterday,  before  all  Flor- 
ence." 

"Messer  Simone  is  no  stickler  for  principles," 
Folco  said,  sourly;  "he  cares  for  no  laws  that  he 
can  break.  But  in  this  case  he  claims  to  be  acting 


MEETING   AND    PARTING 

according  to  his  right,  since  the  breaking  of  the 
peace  comes  from  you." 

"From  me!"  Dante  stared  at  Folco  in  amaze- 
ment. 

But  Messer  Folco  nodded  his  head  emphatically 
in  support  of  what  he  had  just  affirmed.  "I  have 
it  all,"  he  said,  "from  a  friend  of  mine  that  has 
just  come  hotfoot  from  his  neighborhood  to  give 
me  warning,  so  that  we  may  be  ready  to  yield  with- 
out making  difficulties.  Messer  Simone  affirms 
that  you  have  broken  the  peace  by  visiting  his 
wedded  wife  without  his  knowledge  or  consent, 
and  that  he  is  in  his  rights  as  a  citizen,  a  husband, 
and  a  man  in  coming  here  to  claim  his  bride  and 
to  defend  her  from  your  advances." 

"I  do  no  wrong  in  coming  here,"  Dante  said, 
sternly.  "I  came  here  without  secrecy,  as  I  had 
a  right  to  come  if  you  were  not  unwilling." 

"Yes,  yes,"  Folco  said,  "you  came  here  without 
secrecy;  but  Simone's  man,  Maleotti,  sees  you  and 
runs  to  tell  his  master,  and  presently  his  master 
will  be  here  to  claim  his  wife." 

"What  will  you  do,  then  ?"  asked  Dante,  studying 
the  elder's  face. 

Messer  Folco  spoke  proudly.  "Folco  Portinari 
will  defend  his  daughter.  Folco  Portinari  will  de- 
fend his  house  so  long  as  the  stones  of  its  walls 
hold  together.  My  servants  are  arming  now.  I 
have  sent  to  the  Signory  for  aid  from  the  Priors. 
319 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

If  the  Bardi  beards  me,  let  him  look  to  himself." 
He  turned  to  Dante,  and  addressed  him.  "Young 
man,  I  know  you  better  than  I  did,  and  rate  you 
higher.  I  overheard  your  talk  with  my  daughter 
just  now,  as  I  had  a  right  to  do,  and  I  esteem  you 
a  brave  and  honorable  man.  You  have  already 
shown  that  you  can  serve  the  state.  If  there  comes 
a  happy  way  out  of  this  tangle,  I  shall  be  glad  to 
welcome  you  again.  But  now  it  were  well  you 
should  leave  us.'* 

Dante  respectfully  saluted  Folco.  "I  thank  you 
with  all  my  heart,"  he  said,  simply,  "for  to-day's 
favor.  I  take  my  leave  quickly,  for  I  have  a  word 
to  say  to  Simone."  He  turned  to  Beatrice,  took 
her  hand,  and,  bending,  kissed  it  reverentially. 
"Most  dear  lady,  farewell."  He  looked  once,  long- 
ingly, into  the  wide,  tearless  eyes  of  Beatrice,  then 
turned  and  left  the  room  rapidly. 

With  a  loving  glance  at  his  daughter,  Messer 
Folco  turned  and  followed  him.  A  minute  later 
Tommaso  Severo,  entering  the  room  with  a  look  of 
grave  anxiety  on  his  face,  was  but  just  in  time  to 
catch  Beatrice  in  his  arms  as  she  fell  in  a  swoon. 

As  Dante  made  his  way  through  the  corridors  of 
the  palace,  Messer  Folco  came  after  him  hot  upon 
his  heels.  "You  will  lose  your  way,  Messer  Dante," 
he  panted,  "if  you  have  not  me  to  guide  you."  He 
led  Dante  quickly  by  the  way  along  which  he  had 
come,  the  two  going  in  silence. 
320 


MEETING    AND    PARTING 

Suddenly  Dante  caught  his  companion  by  the 
arm,  and  addressed  him  eagerly:  "Do  me  a  good 
turn  before  I  go,"  he  said.  "You  see  me  with 
the  Peace  of  the  City  upon  me;  I  carry  no  weapon. 
Lend  me  a  sword." 

Messer  Folco  would  have  dissuaded  Dante,  urg- 
ing him  to  put  himself  in  some  place  of  safety  as 
speedily  as  might  be. 

But  Dante  shook  his  head.  "I  must  have  a 
sword,"  he  insisted.  "I  wish  to  speak  with  my 
enemy  at  the  gate." 

Then  Messer  Folco,  seeing  that  he  was  obdurate, 
and  in  his  heart  applauding  his  obstinacy,  took  him 
aside  to  a  kind  of  armory,  and  there,  from  an  abun- 
dance of  weapons,  Dante  chose  him  a  long  sword, 
which  he  thrust  into  his  belt.  Thus  weaponed,  he 
followed  Messer  Folco  to  the  gate  of  the  palace  and 
passed  out  into  the  fierce  daylight,  and  as  he 
heard  the  bolts  shot  behind  him,  he  looked  about 
him  to  see  if  there  was  any  one  hard  by  whom  he 
knew.  He  saw  a  youth  with  whom  he  had  some 
acquaintance,  and  called  him  to  him,  and  begged 
him  to  go  with  all  speed  to  Messer  Guido  Caval- 
canti  and  tell  him  that  his  friend  Dante  waited  for 
him  and  such  friends  as  he  could  muster  at  the 
Portinari  palace.  And  when  the  youth  had  gone 
Dante  stood  patiently,  waiting  for  the  things  to  be. 


XXVI 

THE    ENEMY   AT  THE   GATE 

DANTE  had  not  long  to  wait.  From  all  direc- 
tions folk  came  hurrying  into  the  Place  of  the 
Holy  Felicity,  presaging  by  their  presence  untow- 
ard events.  Among  these  were  certain  friends  of 
Dante's,  youths  that,  like  him,  had  enrolled  them- 
selves on  the  fellowship  of  the  Company  of  Death 
and  had  ridden  to  Arezzo  together.  These  he 
called  toward  him,  and  put  them  quickly  in  pos- 
session of  what  was  toward,  and  those  that  carried 
weapons  stood  by  him,  and  those  that  were  weap- 
onless hastened  to  find  weapons  and  came  back 
swiftly.  As  the  square  was  filling  with  people 
there  came  along  at  a  trot  the  few  guards  that  the 
Priors,  in  their  wisdom,  had  deemed  it  sufficient  to 
send  for  the  defence  of  Messer  Folco's  house,  and 
these  gathered  together  hard  by  the  door  and  stood 
there,  seeming  to  findHittle  comfort  in  their  busi- 
ness. Scarcely  had  they  taken  their  places  when  a 
great  roar  from  the  farther  end  of  the  square  an- 
nounced some  event  of  moment,  and  immediately 
thereafter  Messer  Simone  rode  forward  on  his 
322 


THE   ENEMY   AT   THE   GATE 

great  war-horse  with  a  small  army  of  soldiers, 
friends,  and  adherents  after  him.  At  the  selfsame 
moment  Messer  Guido  Cavalcanti  and  a  number 
of  his  friends  came  racing  into  the  square  from  the 
other  corner  and  rushed  in  a  body  toward  the  door 
of  the  Portinari  palace,  where  Dante  was  standing 
very  quietly,  seemingly  all  unconscious  of  the 
myriads  of  eyes  that  were  fixed  upon  him.  Thus, 
by  the  time  that  Messer  Simone  and  his  followers 
had  advanced  half-way  across  the  square,  there 
was  a  goodly  number  of  well-armed  and  resolute 
gentlemen  gathered  about  the  doors  of  Folco's 
palace,  and  their  strength  was  increased  almost 
every  instant  by  new  additions  to  their  count. 

When  Messer  Simone  saw  the  opposition  that 
was  intended  to  him,  and  who  those  were  that 
offered  it,  he  was  hugely  delighted,  for  he  per- 
ceived now  an  excellent  opportunity  of  getting  rid 
of  the  majority  of  his  enemies  at  a  single  stroke,  as 
it  were.  The  men  he  had  with  him  that  filled  a 
goodly  part  of  the  square  were  far  more  numerous 
than  those  that  had  been  thus  hastily  rallied  against 
him,  and  he  chuckled  at  his  luck.  But  when  he 
saw  Dante  where  he  stood  he  reviled  him,  calling 
him  the  thief  that  would  steal  a  man's  wife  from 
his  side,  and  summoning  him  to  yield  himself  a 
prisoner  instantly.  He  did  this  to  put  himself  in 
the  right  with  the  people  before  he  made  an  attack, 
and  to  disgrace  Dante  in  their  eyes.  But  Dante 
323 


THE   GOD    OF    LOVE 

answered  him  very  quietly,  saying  that  he  was  a 
liar  and  a  traitor  that  had  cheated  a  woman  with 
fables  like  a  coward,  and  sent  his  fellow-citizens  to 
death  by  treachery  like  a  rogue.  "  But,"  so  Dante 
went  on,  "liar  though  you  be,  and  traitor  and  cow- 
ard and  rogue,  as  this  is  our  quarrel,  yours  and 
mine  and  no  other  man's,  I  call  upon  you  to  dis- 
mount and  meet  me  here  sword  in  hand,  that  it 
shall  be  seen  which  of  us  two  is  the  friend  of  God 
in  this  matter." 

At  these  brave  words  many  of  the  people  cheered, 
and  Simone  was  in  a  red  rage  at  their  cries,  but  he 
laughed  at  Dante  and  mocked  him;  yet  I  think  he 
cannot  have  been  so  sure  of  himself  as  before,  or 
he  would  have  taken  Dante's  challenge  for  the 
pleasure  of  slaying  him  with  his  own  hands.  I  am 
not  sure  that  he  would  have  slain  Dante,  and  very 
possibly  Dante  might  have  slain  him,  for  Dante's 
skill  with  the  weapon  was  now  marvellous  for  his 
age.  But,  however,  that  was  not  to  be.  Then 
Messer  Simone  bade  Messer  Guido  and  his  friends 
stand  away  from  Messer  Folco's  gates,  for  he  had 
a  mind  to  go  in  and  get  his  wife.  When  Messer 
Guido  denied  him  steadfastly,  and  called  upon  him 
to  keep  the  peace,  Messer  Simone  grinned,  and,  turn- 
ing to  his  men,  was  for  giving  them  the  word  to 
fall  on.  But  even  then  another  great  roar  from  the 
crowd  told  of  some  new  thing,  and  the  trampling 
of  many  horses  was  heard,  and  over  the  bridge 
324 


THE    ENEMY   AT   THE   GATE 

came  a  company  of  lances,  and  over  their  heads 
fluttered  the  Dragon-flag  of  Griffb  of  the  Claw,  and 
the  great  Free  Companion  and  his  fellows  forced 
their  way  through  the  yielding  throng  and  took 
up  their  station  opposite  Messer  Simone  and  his 
friends,  and  it  was.  very  plain  that  it  was  their  in- 
tention to  oppose  him.  This  was  just  the  time  that 
I  got  to  the  square,  as  I  have  already  told. 

Messer  Simone's  plans  had  been  grievously 
marred  by  the,  for  him,  untimely  appearance  of 
Messer  Griffb  and  his  lances.  Up  to  that  moment 
he  seemed  to  have  the  city  pretty  well  at  his  mercy. 
His  party  counted  the  more  numerous  adherents 
and  the  better  prepared.  The  Reds  were  taken  by 
surprise,  and  were  largely  scattered  about  among 
the  crowd,  instead  of  being  drawn  together  into  a 
solid  body  like  the  Yellows.  In  the  seats  of  au- 
thority counsels  were  much  divided,  and,  in  view 
of  such  division,  it  was  difficult,  if  not  impossible, 
to  take  any  decided  action  against  Simone  and 
his  friends.  Moreover,  there  was,  or  so  at  least  it 
seemed  to  many  who  were  not  necessarily  on  Messer 
Simone's  side,  on  the  face  of  it,  not  a  little  to  be 
said  for  Bull-face  of  the  Bardi.  The  daughter  of 
Folco  Portinari  was  indeed  his  wife,  and  it  seemed 
to  those  that  were  sticklers  for  the  solemnity  of  the 
married  state,  however  brought  about,  that  he  had 
every  right  to  claim  her,  and,  if  put  to  it  by  unwise 
opposition,  to  take  her  from  her  father's  house. 
325 


THE    GOD   OF    LOVE 

That  the  girl's  consent  to  the  wedding  had  been 
either  extorted  from  her  by  menace  or  won  from 
her  by  means  of  a  sorry  trick  mattered  little  in  the 
eyes  of  these  disciplinarians.  A  daughter,  accord- 
ing to  their  philosophy,  had  no  right  to  have  an 
opinion  of  her  own  as  to  her  spouse.  She  was 
bound  by  the  old  rules  and  customs  of  the  country 
to  accept  with  submission,  and  not  merely  with 
submission  but  with  meekness,  and  not  merely 
with  meekness  but  with  gratitude,  the  husband 
that  might  be  selected  for  her  by  the  wisdom  of 
her  elders.  All  this  volume  of  feeling — and  it  ran 
with  a  pretty  strong  current — was  in  favor  of  Messer 
Simone,  and  Messer  Simone  knew  that  it  would  be 
so  in  his  favor,  and  counted  on  it,  and  made  the 
most  of  it,  displaying  himself  very  obstreperously 
before  the  city  as  the  defrauded  husband. 

Nor,  as  I  have  said,  was  the  fact  that  Messer 
Simone  had  been  a  party — if,  indeed,  this  could 
be  proved  against  him,  and  were  no  more  than 
mere  malicious  rumor — to  a  planned  ambuscade, 
with  its  consequent  slaughter  of  Florentine  chivalry, 
found  to  weigh  very  heavily  against  him  in  the 
minds  of  many  that  belonged  to  the  Yellow  fellow- 
ship. A  man  must  get  rid  of  his  enemies  as  best 
he  can,  after  all,  and  the  misfortune  in  this  matter 
for  Messer  Simone  was  that  he  had  flagrantly  failed 
in  his  enterprise,  and  had  rather  strengthened  than 
weakened  his  adversaries  by  his  misadventure. 
326 


THE   ENEMY   AT   THE   GATE 

Anyway,  he  may  have  had  nothing  whatever  to  do 
with  the  matter,  and  must  for  the  present  be  ac- 
corded the  benefit  of  the  doubt. 

All  these  things  combined  to  make  Messer  Si- 
mone's  rising  a  mighty  serious  matter,  and  his  ap- 
pearance at  the  head  of  his  little  army  of  followers 
before  the  house  of  Messer  Folco  of  the  Portinari 
a  thing  of  sufficiently  grave  concern  for  Messer 
Folco.  Simone  clamored  for  his  wife,  Simone  in- 
sisted on  his  wife  being  delivered  over  to  him, 
Simone  loudly  announced  his  intention,  if  the  girl 
were  not  promptly  and  peaceably  surrendered  to 
him,  of  laying  siege  to  the  Portinari  palace  and 
taking  her  thence  by  force. 

Now,  of  the  populace  of  Florence,  that  was  soon 
set  astir  and  buzzing  by  all  this  war-like  circum- 
stance, I  think  that  the  most  part  were  against 
Messer  Simone  in  this  business,  because  of  the 
general  pity  felt  for  the  girl,  and  the  general  ad- 
miration for  young  Dante  that  was  now  proved  poet 
and  proved  soldier,  and  the  general  sympathy  for 
two  young  lovers  troubled  by  adverse  stars.  But 
such  sympathy  could  do  little  against  the  grim 
arguments  of  Simone,  against  those  steady  ranks 
of  his  adherents,  heavily  armed,  and  resolute  to 
follow  their  leader  wherever  he  might  choose  to 
lead  them.  Yet  the  people  had  found  a  leader  in 
Dante,  whose  words  had  set  their  minds  on  fire, 
and  the  gradually  increasing  number  of  the  Reds 
327 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

that  had  made  their  way  to  the  place  and  were 
clustered  about  Guido  Cavalcanti  stiffened  their 
fluent  units  into  something  like  a  solidity  of  opposi- 
tion. But  the  odds  were  amazingly  on  the  side  of 
the  Yellows  in  everything  that  was  necessary  for 
success,  in  readiness,  in  discipline,  in  weapons,  in 
stubbornness  of  determination  to  do  the  thing  they 
wished  to  do — as  indifferent  to  the  laws  of  the  city 
as  heedless  of  the  laws  of  Heaven.  The  points  of 
the  game  were  all  in  favor  of  Messer  Simone. 

But  when  Messer  Griffo  of  the  Claw  rode  into 
the  city  at  the  head  of  his  levy  of  lances,  with 
Monna  Vittoria  in  her  male  attire  riding  by  his 
side,  and  the  Dragon  banner  flapping  over  all, 
things  began  to  wear  a  very  different  face.  Messer 
Griffo  and  his  merry  men  forced  their  way  easily 
enough  across  the  bridge,  pushing  steadily  through 
the  crowds  that  gave  way  before  them  and  cheered 
them  as  they  passed,  for  Griffo  of  the  Claw  was 
popular  in  Florence.  The  company  of  mercenaries, 
as  I  have  said,  came  to  a  halt  by  Messer  Folco's 
house,  and  drew  up  in  face  of  Simone  and  his 
forces. 

Now,  when  I  came  upon  the  scene,  I  was  still  a 
little  dizzy  with  wine  and  sleep,  whose  fumes  my 
race  through  the  streets  of  the  city  had  not  wholly 
dissipated,  but  I  was  beginning  to  collect  my  senses 
and  to  understand  what  was  going  forward.  My 
Dante,  standing  with  his  drawn  sword  in  front  of 
328 


THE   ENEMY   AT   THE   GATE 

Folco's  door,  the  few  and  frightened  civic  guards 
about  the  Portinari  palace,  the  group  of  Guido 
Cavalcanti  and  his  brethren  of  the  Red,  the  Bull- 
face  Bardi  with  a  multitude  behind  him,  and  in 
front  of  these  the  new-come  Free  Companions, 
calm  as  statues  behind  their  master  and  the  man- 
woman  by  his  side — all  these  made  up  such  a  sight 
as  I  never  saw  before  and  have  never  seen  since, 
though  I  saw  much  in  my  time  when  I  was  a 
worldling,  but  naught  to  equal  that  day's  doings. 

I  have  told  you  already  how  I  forced  and  coaxed 
a  passage  through  the  throng  on  the  piazza  as  quick- 
ly as  I  could,  with  the  aid  of  my  cry,  "Make  way 
for  the  Company  of  Death!"  shouted  with  great 
assurance,  as  if  I  had  at  my  heels  all  who  had  en- 
rolled themselves  in  that  strange  brotherhood.  As 
a  fact,  many  of  the  company  were  ranked  behind 
Messer  Simone,  serving  his  cause,  and  of  those  that 
rode  with  me  to  Arezzo,  the  most  part  were  gathered 
together  about  Messer  Guido  Cavalcanti  and 
backed  Dante's  quarrel,  and,  indeed,  the  company 
never  served  together  as  a  company  after  that  day. 
But  the  name  was  just  then  very  pleasing  to  Floren- 
tine ears,  because  of  the  little  triumph  over  the 
Aretines,  and  so  the  name  of  the  company  served 
me  as  a  talisman  to  squeeze  me  through  the  press 
to  the  front,  and  so  to  place  myself  by  Guido's  side. 

Messer  Simone  glared  very  ferociously  at  the 
new-comers,  at  Griffo  of  the  Claw,  that  had  lost 
329 


THE   GOD   OF    LOVE 

him  one  toss  already,  and  at  the  woman  who  rode 
beside  him  so  gay  and  debonair  in  her  mannish 
habit — the  woman  he  had  slighted,  the  woman  who 
had,  as  he  guessed,  baffled  his  plans  once,  and  had 
now  come,  as  he  might  be  very  sure,  to  baffle  them 
again.  It  was  plain  to  him  that  he  had  lost  the 
day.  It  needed  no  great  tactician,  no  strategist,  to 
perceive  that  the  coming  of  the  condottieri  had 
turned  the  scale  against  him.  They  were  better 
weaponed  than  his  men,  and  when  their  strength 
was  added  to  that  of  the  adversaries  already  ar- 
rayed against  him,  he  was  gravely  outnumbered. 
The  arrival  of  the  mercenaries  had  served  to  define 
the  mood  of  many  a  waverer  and  to  stiffen  the 
courage  of  many  that  had  been  against  Simone  all 
along,  but  feared  to  make  themselves  marked  men 
by  publicly  opposing  him.  The  most  prudent  thing 
for  Messer  Simone  to  do — and  I  am  sure  he  knew 
it — was  to  give  up  his  game,  withdraw  his  forces, 
and  trust  to  the  chance  of  some  opportunity  of 
revenge  hereafter.  This  was  assuredly  the  wisest 
course  open  to  Simone  to  pursue.  But  Simone  did 
not  pursue  that  wisest  course.  His  temper  was 
worse  than  his  intelligence. 

When  Dante,  from  where  he  stood,  saw  the 
coming  of  Griffo,  he  saluted  him  with  his  sword, 
for  he  rightly  believed  that  he  came  as  a  friend  to 
himself,  or  at  least  as  a  foe  to  Simone;  and  Messer 
Guido,  that  had  a  right  to  take  a  foremost  place  in 
330 


THE   ENEMY   AT   THE   GATE 

the  affairs  of  the  City,  especially  in  such  a  time  and 
place  where  none  of  those  in  authority  were  present, 
went  up  to  the  condottiere  and  stood  by  his  bridle, 
and  spoke  him  fair,  and  asked  him  very  courteously 
why  he  came  thus  among  them.  And  Griffo  an- 
swered, speaking  also  very  courteously  and  quietly, 
that  he  had  heard  from  a  sure  source  that  there  were 
dissensions  in  Florence  whereby  some  of  his  friends 
were  in  danger  whom  he  would  be  sorry  to  have 
come  to  hurt — and  as  he  spoke  he  saluted  Messer 
Guido  very  civilly  and  also  Dante — and  that  in 
consequence  he  had  ridden  over,  he  and  his  men, 
from  the  neighborhood  of  Arezzo,  in  the  hope  that 
perhaps  he  and  they  might  be  of  some  service  to 
the  authorities  in  aiding  them  to  keep  the  public 
peace. 

Now,  Messer  Griffo  said  what  he  said  in  a  very 
loud  voice,  so  that  as  many  as  might  be  should  hear 
him.  As  the  people  were  keeping  very  still  since 
the  coming  of  the  mercenaries,  out  of  eagerness 
and  curiosity,  very  many  did  hear  him,  and  natural- 
ly Messer  Simone,  that  was  only  a  few  feet  away, 
heard  him.  It  seemed  as  if  his  rage  and  hatred 
boiled  over  within  him,  so  that  he  could  not  abide 
in  silence,  but  must  needs  give  speech  to  his  spleen. 
So  he  urged  his  horse  a  little  forward  and  looked 
straight  at  Messer  Griffo,  and  very  fiercely.  Then 
he  called  out,  in  a  huge  voice,  "Florence  has  come 
to  a  poor  pass  if  her  peace  depends  upon  a  scoundrel 
33 i 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

and  his  strumpet!"  And  as  he  said  this  he  pointed 
a  great  finger  direct  at  Vittoria,  and  burst  out  into 
a  horrible  laugh.  And  Griffo  showed  no  sign  that 
he  had  as  much  as  heard  Simone,  but  the  woman 
went  pale  under  the  insult,  and  tried  to  speak, 
but  at  first  she  could  not. 

At  length,  in  a  little,  she  found  her  breath, 
and  she  cried  back  at  the  giant:  "You  have  won 
your  wager,  Messer  Simone,  and  I  wish  you  joy 
of  your  winning  and  the  wife  that  loves  another 
lord!  But  I  would  not  have  you  now  or  ever,  for 
I  have  found  a  better  man!" 

At  this  I  guessed,  and  was  right  in  my  guess- 
work, that  she  meant  Messer  Griffo,  of  whom,  it 
seems,  that  she  had  suddenly  become  overweeningly 
fond,  as  indeed  he  of  her.  Then  Madonna  Vit- 
toria pulled  with  her  right  hand  at  a  finger  of  her 
left,  and  drew  thence  a  heavy  gold  ring  that  carried 
a  great  emerald  set  in  its  socket,  and  I  remembered, 
as  I  saw  that  this  was  the  ring  she  had  staked  in 
her  wager  against  Simone's  promise  to  wed.  She 
rose  a  little  in  her  stirrups,  holding  up  the  ring. 
"Take  your  gain,  beast!"  she  screamed,  and  she 
flung  the  ring  with  all  her  force  in  Simone's  face, 
and  struck  him  on  the  left  cheek  and  cut  it  open, 
and  the  ring  fell  clattering  to  the  ground  among 
the  horses'  hooves,  and  the  red  blood  ran  over 
Simone's  face,  very  ugly  to  behold. 

What  happened  then  happened  more  quickly 
332 


THE   ENEMY   AT   THE   GATE 

than  I  can  write  it  down,  happened  more  quickly 
than  I  could  tell  it  across  a  table  to  a  friend.  With 
a  cry  that  was  more  like  the  bellow  of  some  beast  of 
the  field  than  any  sound  of  a  man's  voice,  Simone 
drove  his  horse  against  Vittoria,  and,  bending  over 
his  charger's  neck,  gripped  the  woman  about  the 
neck  with  both  hands,  and,  lifting  her  out  of  her 
saddle,  flung  her  across  his  crupper  and  held  her 
there,  squeezing  at  her  throat.  For  what  seemed 
to  me  an  age,  I  and  those  near  me  stared  at  Vit- 
toria's  face,  all  red  and  swollen  with  the  choked 
blood,  made  horrid  with  the  starting  eyes,  its  beauty 
ruined  by  the  grasp  of  those  two  strangling  hands. 
Simone  was  a  madman  at  the  moment,  with  a  mad- 
man's single  thought,  to  kill  his  victim,  his  fingers 
tightening  and  his  blood-stained  face  twisted  into 
a  hideous  grin.  Before  the  ghastly  sight  men  stood 
still,  and  knew  not  what  to  do — all  but  one  man. 

Griffo's  sword  rose  in  the  air,  shining  like  fire 
in  the  sunlight;  Griffo's  sword  fell  like  a  falling 
star  for  swiftness,  and  struck  Simone  between  the 
head  and  the  shoulder,  slicing  into  the  flesh  as  a 
knife  slices  into  an  apple.  It  was  a  well-nigh  head- 
less trunk  that  rolled  from  the  saddle  fountaining 
its  blood.  As  the  dead  giant  fell,  GrifFo  let  his 
sword  drop  clanging  on  the  stones  and  caught  hold 
of  Vittoria,  and,  wrenching  her  from  the  relaxing 
fingers,  clasped  her  senseless  body  in  his  arms. 

In  the  fury  of  confusion  that  followed — the  scream- 
333 


THE    GOD    OF    LOVE 

ing  and  plunging  of  startled  horses,  the  shouts  and 
oaths  and  cries  of  men  that  seemed  to  themselves 
to  have  kept  silence  for  a  great  while,  and,  finding 
voice  as  last,  must  needs  use  it  inarticulately,  like 
savages — I  remember  best  how  I  saw  Dante  stand- 
ing erect  on  the  palace  steps,  with  his  sword  held 
high  above  him,  and  his  face  was  set  and  stern  as 
the  face  of  some  herald  of  the  wrath  of  Heaven. 
"The  judgment  of  God!"  he  shouted,  in  a  voice 
so  loud  that  I  heard  it  above  all  the  din,  and  many 
others  heard  it  too,  "the  judgment  of  God!  the 
judgment  of  God!" 


XXVII 

THE    SOLITARY   CITY 

WITH  the  death  of  Simone  the  immediate  brawl 
came  to  an  end.  In  the  first  fury  after  his 
fall  certain  of  his  followers  began  to  cry  for  ven- 
geance, but  the  cry  was  not  caught  up  with  any 
fulness  of  assurance,  and  soon  faded  into  silence. 
The  men  of  the  Yellows,  so  suddenly  made  leader- 
less  and  faced  by  enemies  so  many  and  determined, 
could  not  fuse  into  concerted  action.  They  hesi- 
tated, looked  foolishly  at  one  another,  and  lost 
whatever  chance  they  had  of  success.  Messer 
Simone's  body,  almost  decapitated  from  the  stroke 
of  Griffo,  was  fished  up  from  underneath  the  hooves 
of  his  rearing  charger,  laid  upon  a  dismounted  door, 
covered  w  th  a  cloak,  and  hurriedly  conveyed  away 
to  his  house.  Madonna  Vittoria,  snatched  just  in 
time  from  the  clutch  of  those  cruel  fingers,  drew 
her  breath  in  and  out  again;  the  blood  that  had 
suffused  her  swollen  face  flowed  back  into  its  proper 
channels;  she  quickened  to  existence  clinging  to  her 
Griffb's  breast.  Messer  Guido,  taking  to  himself 
authority  as  the  chief  man  of  his  party  there  pres- 
335 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

ent,  called  upon  the  party  of  the  dead  Bardi  to 
disperse,  and  disperse  they  did,  cowed  by  the 
presence  of  the  lances  of  the  Dragon-flag,  even 
before  the  belated  arrival  of  authority,  backed  by 
all  the  forces  it  could  command,  had  made  dispersal 
a  necessity. 

Authority,  now  that  Simone  dei  Bardi  was  in- 
dubitably dead,  held  a  united  mind  against  Simone 
dei  Bardi,  and  entertained  no  thoughts  of  punishing 
his  slayer,  who,  indeed,  would  scarcely  have  been 
minded  to  tolerate  their  jurisdiction.  Messer  Griffo 
was  left  to  ride  unchecked  to  Monna  Vittoria's  villa 
with  his  lances  at  his  back.  In  that  villa  Monna 
Vittoria  recovered  briskly,  thanks  to  her  youth  and 
her  health,  and  in  that  villa  a  little  later  the  ad- 
venturer wedded  the  adventuress,  and  proved  to 
the  end  of  their  days  patterns  of  wedded  content 
and  pleasure.  Messer  Simone's  body  was  buried 
stealthily  at  night,  and  authority  vindicated  its 
dignity  by  confiscating  his  houses  and  his  goods, 
though  it  restored  to  Madonna  Vittoria  her  emerald 
ring,  which  was  picked  up  on  the  field  of  fight,  as 
some  salve  for  her  rough  handling.  So  ended,  as 
far  as  the  feud  of  Reds  and  Yellows  was  concerned, 
that  wild  day  which  is  remembered,  whimsically 
enough,  in  the  annals  of  Florence  as  the  Day  of  the 
Felicity,  from  the  name  of  the  place  where  the  con- 
test began  and  ceased.  From  that  day  the  words 
Red  and  Yellow  as  party  terms  ceased  to  be  used, 
336 


THE   SOLITARY   CITY 

because  the  parties  had  ceased  to  exist.  The  Yel- 
lows fell  to  pieces  with  the  death  of  Simone,  and 
the  Reds,  having  no  appreciable  antagonists,  ceased 
in  their  turn  to  be. 

As  for  my  Dante,  his  joy  in  that  day's  work  lived 
a  short  life.  Let  the  story  of  his  woe  be  told  quickly. 
When  the  door  of  the  house  of  Folco  was  opened 
to  him,  he  faced  its  master  on  the  threshold,  clad 
in  his  ancient  armor  for  the  defence  of  his  dwelling, 
and  his  face  was  strained  with  sadness,  and  he 
seemed  gray  with  the  double  of  his  years. 

"My  child  lies  in  a  swoon,"  he  said.  "The 
physician  cannot  awaken  her  as  yet.  Go  to  your 
lodging.  I  will  send  for  you  when  she  comes  to 
herself." 

With  that  Dante  had  to  be  content,  and  he  went 
back  to  the  place  where  he  abode,  and  he  sat  in  his 
lonely  room  to  await  the  coming  of  Folco's  mes- 
senger. His  heart  was  heavy  within  him,  and  his 
thoughts  were  troubled,  and  he  feared  the  great 
fear.  Then,  to  while  away  the  weary  time,  and  to 
stay  his  care  from  feeding  on  his  spirit,  he  sought 
some  work  for  his  hands.  He  could  write  no 
verses,  but  because  he  was  not  without  skill  as  a 
draughtsman  he  took  up,  wherewith  to  draw,  his 
tables  and  a  pencil,  and  he  began  to  trace  the  face 
of  an  angel,  and  under  his  working  fingers  the  face 
of  the  angel  had  the  face  of  a  girl,  and  the  face  of 
the  girl  was  the  face  of  Beatrice.  But  while  he 
337 


THE   GOD   OF   LOVE 

drew  he  became  of  a  sudden  aware  that  there  was 
another  in  the  room  with  him,  although  he  knew 
that  he  had  fastened  the  door  behind  him  when  he 
came  in,  and  that  none  could  have  entered  without 
his  knowledge.  Turning  his  head,  he  beheld  that 
the  God  of  Love  was  standing  in  the  room,  even 
as  he  seemed  in  the  form  of  the  image  that  stood 
over  the  fountain  by  the  bridge.  But  now  the 
bright  feathers  of  his  wings  were  faded,  and  his 
face  was  wan,  and  the  garment  that  he  wore  was 
no  longer  red  but  black,  and  he  looked  very  sadly 
upon  Dante,  and  Dante  felt  his  spirit  grow  cold  and 
old  within  him  before  that  melancholy  gaze.  Then 
the  God  of  Love  made  a  sign  to  Dante  to  rise  and 
Dante  rose,  and  Love  beckoned  to  him  to  follow 
and  Dante  followed.  The  God  of  Love  went  out 
at  the  door  and  down  the  stair  with  Dante  ever 
after  him,  and  so  into  the  air.  No  one  in  the  street 
saw  that  gloomy  figure  of  Love,  no  one  save  Dante, 
and  Dante  followed  his  guide  through  the  bright 
evening,  heeding  no  one,  thinking  no  other  thought 
than  to  go  where  his  mournful  herald  led  him.  The 
God  of  Love  conducted  him  to  the  house  of  Folco 
Portinari.  Even  as  Dante  came  to  the  door  the 
door  opened  and  a  man  came  forth,  and  the  man 
was  Messer  Tommaso  Severe,  that  was  setting  out 
to  seek  for  Dante.  Severo  saw  Dante,  but  he  did 
not  see  the  God  of  Love,  and  he  told  Dante  that 
he  was  on  the  point  of  seeking  him. 
338 


THE   SOLITARY   CITY 

And  Dante  cried  out  one  word — "Beatrice!" 
And  Messer  Severe  answered  the  question  in  his 
cry,  very  slowly  and  sadly,  "Madonna  Beatrice  is 
dead." 

Then  Dante  cried,  "Take  me  to  her!"  And 
after  that  he  spoke  no  other  word,  but  walked  in 
silence  and  tearless  by  Severo's  side  till  they  came 
to  the  room  where  Beatrice  lay  in  her  last  sleep. 
The  women  that  were  about  the  bier  drew  away, 
and  the  God  of  Love  took  Dante  by  the  hand  and 
drew  him  a  little  nearer  to  where  the  girl  lay,  and 
Love  stooped  down  and  kissed  the  white  face  of 
Beatrice — kissed  her  on  the  forehead  and  on  the 
lidded  eyes  and  on  the  pale  lips.  Dante  heard  the 
voice  of  the  God,  that  said,  "It  is  your  love  that 
kisses  her  thus."  But  Dante  spoke  no  word,  and 
there  were  no  tears  in  his  eyes;  only  he  stood  there 
a  little  while  looking  at  Beatrice,  and  then  he  turned 
and  went  his  ways,  unquestioned  and  unstayed, 
back  to  his  own  place.  When  Messer  Guido  and 
I  came  to  him  later  we  found  him  sitting  all  alone 
in  his  chamber  looking  at  a  little  unfinished  draw- 
ing of  an  angel,  and  murmuring  to  himself,  over 
and  over  again,  "How  doth  the  city  sit  solitary  that 
was  full  of  people  ?  How  is  she  become  a  widow  ?" 

Here   my   tale   comes   to   an   end.     The   rascal 
Maleotti  confessed  later,  on  being  put  to  the  ques- 
tion, that  it  was  his  master,  Simone  dei  Bardi,  who 
339 


THE   GOD   OF    LOVE 

sent  to  Madonna  Beatrice  the  casket  containing  the 
rose,  and  that  the  petals  of  the  rose  had  been 
poisoned  by  a  cunning  leech  that  was  in  Messer 
Simone's  service,  for  Messer  Simone  was  sure  that 
Beatrice  would  think  it  came  from  Dante,  and 
Messer  Simone  was  of  a  mind  that  if  he  could  not 
have  Beatrice  no  one  else  should  have  her.  But 
when  Simone  heard  from  Maleotti  of  Dante's  visit 
to  the  Portinari  palace  so  soon  after  the  sending  of 
the  casket,  he  felt  sure  that  Dante  would  deny,  as 
Dante  did  deny,  the  sending  of  the  rose,  and  that  the 
evil  thing  would  scarcely  have  had  time  to  effect  its 
purpose.  Then  the  flames  of  his  jealousy  blazed 
hotter  within  him,  and  he  thought  that  Dante's 
presence  in  the  palace  would  be  an  excuse  for  him 
to  break  the  peace  that  had  been  put  upon  him, 
and  that  he  might,  after  all,  win  Beatrice  for  him- 
self. In  this,  as  you  know,  he  failed,  and  it  is  my 
belief  that  he  failed  in  the  first  part  of  his  plotting, 
for  Messer  Tommaso  Severe,  that  had  examined 
the  rose,  gave  it  as  his  opinion  that  though  the 
petals  had  been  impregnated  with  some  kind  of 
venom,  their  odor  had  not  been  inhaled  by  Beatrice 
sufficiently  long  to  cause  any  malignant  effect,  and 
he  affirmed  that  the  fair  lady's  death  was  due  solely 
to  the  woful  agitations  of  the  last  hours  of  her  life 
acting  upon  a  body  ever  too  frail  to  house  so  fine 
a  spirit.  However  that  may  be,  and  I  hope  it  was 
so,  we  found  great  satisfaction  in  the  hanging  of 
340 


THE   SOLITARY   CITY 

Maleotti.  We  would  have  hanged  the  leech,  too, 
whom  Maleotti  accused,  but  he  forestalled  our 
vengeance  by  poisoning  himself — partly,  I  think, 
out  of  hurt  pride  at  the  alleged  failure  of  his  cun- 
ning device. 

I  have  little  more  to  say — no  more,  indeed,  than 
this:  It  has  been  said  by  many,  and  believed  by 
more,  that,  after  the  death  of  his  lady,  my  dear 
friend  fell  into  a  kind  of  moral  torpor,  in  which  all 
sense  of  things  righteous  and  things  evil  was  con- 
fused. Thus  he  went  his  ways,  like  the  godless  man 
of  whom  it  is  spoken  in  the  Wisdom  of  Solomon, 
feeding  on  mean  and  secret  pleasures,  and  consort- 
ing with  the  strange  women  that  are  called  Daugh- 
ters of  Joy.  I  do  not  know  that  he  ever  did  so;  I 
should  never  credit  it,  though  it  is  such  folly  as 
weaker  men  might  fall  into  readily  enough  in  the 
freshness  of  their  despair.  But  I  will  set  down 
this  story  which  I  have  heard  told  of  him.  It  re- 
lates that  one  night  Dante  drifted  toward  that 
quarter  of  the  city  where  such  light  loves  find 
shelter.  There  many  women  plucked  at  his  sleeve 
as  he  passed,  and,  at  last,  surrendering  to  tempta- 
tion, he  followed  through  the  darkness  one  that 
was  closely  cloaked  and  hooded.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  they  went  a  long  way  together,  he  and  the 
hooded  woman  by  his  side,  and  though  at  times  he 
spoke  to  her,  she  answered  him  no  word.  After  a 
while  they  came  to  an  open  place  that  was  moon- 
341 


THE   GOD   OF    LOVE 

lit,  and  then  the  woman  paused  and  pulled  back 
her  hood,  and  there  for  a  moment  Dante  looked 
upon  the  face  of  the  dead  Beatrice.  In  that  in- 
stant Dante  found  himself  alone,  and  he  fled  from 
the  place  in  a  great  horror. 


NOTE 

THOSE  that  in  their  travels  in  France  have  had 
the  good-fortune  to  visit  the  Abbey  of  Bonne 
Aventure  in  Poitou  can  hardly  fail  to  be  familiar 
with  the  many  and  varied  treasures  of  the  abbey 
library.  Most  of  these  treasures  were  brought 
together  by  the  erudite  Dom  Gregory,  who  had, 
among  the  other  honorable  passions  of  a  scholar, 
an  enthusiastic  desire  for  the  amassing  of  rare 
manuscripts.  Perhaps  one  of  the  rarest  of  all  the 
manuscripts  in  his  great  collection  is  that  one 
which  claims  to  be  written  by  the  Italian  poet  Lappo 
Lappi,  and  to  set  forth  in  something  like  narrative 
form  an  account  of  the  loves  of  Dante  and  Beatrice. 
Students  and  scholars  who  have  studied  this  manu- 
script have  differed  greatly  in  their  conclusions  as 
to  its  authenticity  and  its  value.  The  German 
Guggenheim  is  emphatic  in  his  assertion  that  the 
work  is  a  late  eighteenth-century  forgery,  and  he 
bases  his  conclusions  on  many  small  inaccuracies 
of  time  and  place  and  fact  which  his  zeal  and  per- 
tinacity have  discovered.  On  the  other  hand,  Prof. 
Hiram  B.  Pawling,  whose  contributions  to  the  his- 
343 


THE    GOD    OF   LOVE 

tory  of  Italian  literature  form  some  of  the  brightest 
jewels  in  the  crown  of  Harvard  University,  is  in- 
clined, after  careful  consideration,  to  believe  that 
the  manuscript  is,  on  the  whole,  a  genuine  work. 

Undoubtedly  the  sheets  of  parchment  upon  which 
the  remarkable  document  is  written  are  older  than 
the  fourteenth  century,  some  time  in  whose  first 
half  Lappo,  if  he  be  the  author,  must  have  written 
the  book.  The  keen  scrutiny  of  powerful  magnify- 
ing-glasses  has  revealed  the  fact  that  much  of  it  is 
inscribed  on  skins  which  had  formerly  been  used  for 
the  recording  of  a  series  of  Lives  of  the  Saints,  whose 
almost  effaced  letters  belong,  without  question,  to 
the  latter  part  of  the  twelfth  century.  Whoever 
wrote  this  story  of  Dante  must  have  been  at  the 
economical  pains  to  erase  carefully  the  ecclesiastical 
script,  thus  curiously  avenging  so  many  palimpsests 
of  Greek  poets  and  Latin  poets,  whose  lyrics  have 
been  scrubbed  away  with  pumice-stone  to  make 
room  for  homilies  and  liturgies  and  hagiologies. 
If  the  writer  of  the  story  be  indeed  Lappo  Lappi, 
it  would  be  quite  in  keeping  with  his  character,  as 
we  know  it,  to  imagine  him  enjoying  very  greatly 
this  process  of  obliterating  some  saintly  relation 
in  order  to  set  down  upon  the  restored  surfaces  his 
testimony  to  the  greatest  love-story  of  Italy.  It  is, 
however,  unfortunately  impossible  to  maintain  with 
certainty  that  the  writing  is  actually  from  the  hand 
of  Lappo.  Though  it  appears  to  be  a  clerkly 
344 


NOTE 

calligraphy  of  the  fourteenth  century,  such  things 
have  been  imitated  too  often  to  enable  any  but  the 
rashest  and  most  headstrong  of  scholars  to  give  a 
definite  and  unquestionable  opinion.  One  may 
cherish  with  reason  a  private  belief  that  the  thing 
is  indeed  Lappo's  work  in  Lappo's  writing,  but 
with  the  memory  of  some  famous  literary  imposi- 
tions fresh  upon  us,  very  notably  the  additions  to 
Petronius,  we  must  pause  and  pronounce  warily. 
It  may  be,  indeed,  that  although  the  book  be  genuine 
enough  in  its  creation,  it  was  never  intended  to  be 
regarded  as  a  serious  statement  of  facts,  but  rather 
to  be  taken  as  an  essay  in  romance  by  one  who 
wished  the  facts  were  as  he  pictured  them.  If  this 
be  so,  the  narrative  is  even  less  historically  reliable 
than  the  Fiametta  of  Boccaccio. 

In  any  case,  the  manuscript,  whenever  written, 
wherever  written,  and  by  whom  written,  is  in  a  far 
from  perfect  condition.  Though  the  care  of  Dom 
Gregory  had  encased  it  in  a  wrapping  of  purple- 
colored  vellum,  it  still  seems  to  have  suffered  from 
time  and  careless  treatment.  Probably  its  great- 
est injuries  date  from  that  period  when,  during 
the  stress  of  the  French  Revolution,  the  treasures 
of  the  abbey  library  were  hurriedly  concealed  in 
underground  cellars,  and  suffered  no  little  from 
damp  and  dirt  during  the  period  of  their  incarcera- 
tion. Many  portions  of  the  narrative  are  either 
wholly  absent  or  exist  in  such  a  fragmentary  condi- 
345 


THE    GOD   OF   LOVE 

tion  that,  like  a  corrupt  Greek  text,  they  have  to 
be  restored  by  the  desperate  process  of  guesswork. 
Those,  therefore,  who  thirst  for  the  exact  text  of 
the  tale,  must  either  wait  in  patience  for  Professor 
Pawling's  long  promised  edition,  or  satisfy  their 
curiosity  by  a  visit  to  the  Abbey  of  Bonne  Aventure 
in  Poitou. 


THE   END 


A    000029596    4 


